With war looming on the horizon, and their own on-going battle with the secret Vortex organization still unresolved, the members of the Hand of Fortune agreed that they didn’t need to go running after yet another enemy. If the Zalik-mal of Shalara were willing to stay out of their way, the Hand would not seek them out either.

“But we’re not turning a blind eye to their criminal enterprises if they come to our attention,” Mariala added, once the general consensus had been reached the morning after the fight in Rekka’s Arena between the Hand, more than a dozen thieves, two panthers, a gigantic Black Gül and a Death Worm.

“No, of course not,” Vulk had agreed, and the others nodded. “But for now, let’s just leave things to go on as they have for centuries and focus on our own problems.”

Currently, those problems seemed to consist of finding decent interior decorators and/or furniture makers. With the Vortex seemingly quiet and the King having departed two days earlier for the mustering of his army at Kar Urkonis, the Hand was unexpectedly free for a time. While Mariala undertook setting the remodeling of the Green Tower in motion, the others focused on more modest changes to their new homes. Well, except for Vulk, who began to design a sybaritic gambling den motif for Krenden House.

Toran and Korwin drew Devrik into their plan to utilize the acid sacs of the recently deceased Death Worm. The old apothecary/alchemist across the street from Mariala’s place was very excited to have access to the many other parts of the great beast, and took those as payment for processing the acid to Toran’s specifications. Devrik was equally excited at the prospect of creating both a sword and armor that could stand up to his fire magics… the possibilities were extensive!

The city was quiet as everyone went about their business, but a certain tension vibrated in the air, as if people were waiting. People seemed to go about with a certain air of distraction, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop…

King Maldan had done his best to make the city secure, both physically and psychologically – his brother, Ser Koris, had been left in charge of the city, and he had rammed through an acknowledgement of his son, Korun, as the Heir Apparent and Crown Prince while the Succession Council was still gathered together. This relieved some of the anxiety the people had about the new king going off to war, and reduced the likelihood of another succession crisis if the worst came to pass.

Every day the town criers posted news of the gathering of the Army of the East, and the state of the northern marches under the Army of the North, where the Earl Kinen commanded. The North remind quiescent, and once the King’s forces from west and south had finished gathering at Urkonis they would move east to secure the border with Tharkia. Speculation was rampant that the King might actually move to eliminate the threat by preemptively invading Tharkia… he did have a legitimate claim to that throne, after all, and as an usurper, Laravad II had no leg to stand on at all!

It came as quite a shock, therefore, when rumors began to spread through the city on the 23rd of Metisto that Tharkian forces had pulled off a surprise night attack, and the city of Tyendus had fallen! Crowds gathered in the square outside Kar Landsar, demanding news, but no official word was forthcoming.

New rumors, of the fall of Dor Ludolin and Dor Lorethal, began to circulate, and the crowds began to get restive as the anxiety grew. If Tyendus had fallen, that left only a handful of river fortresses to stop a waterborne assault on the capital itself – and Ludolin was one of those keeps! And weren’t the new king’s children, especially his Heir, in Tyendus…?

Finally, as the sun began to sink towards the western walls, an official herald appeared above the closed gates of the castle. In a firm, carrying voice, he read aloud a statement from Ser Koris, Constable of Kar Landsar:

“Citizens of Shalara, rumors lead to fear and panic when there is no cause for such! 

While it is true that the city of Tyendus has indeed fallen to a treacherous attack by the forces of the Tharkian usurper Laravad, on the night of the 21st, the King is already preparing to retake what was stolen from. The Army of the East is assembled, and prepares to march on Tyendus immediately!

And while that theft includes the keep at Ludolin, it does not include Dor Lorethal, which repulsed the attack by Laravad’s barbarian allies! Nor does it include the royal children – word has come that they escaped the city before its fall, and have taken refuge in Dor Lorethal itself, where they are safe and secure.

As is this great city. The garrison is more than ample to hold the walls against an army, never mind against the sort of rabble of sell-swords and barbarians that the criminal Laravad has under his command. 

Surprise and treachery have given him a minor, and very temporary, victory. But strength and virtue will send him and his barbarian rabble to the grave soon enough!

So go on about your business, people of Shalara, and don’t let the terrorists win! Buy war bonds!”

The crowds slowly dispersed… if not with fears completely allayed, at least with more confidence that the King had the situation in hand. The night was quiet, thankfully, as a subdued populace generally stayed home.

♦ ♦ ♦

The next day a courier arrived at the Green Tower, formally summoning the Hand of Fortune to Kar Landsar in the name of the King. There they met with Ser Koris, the King’s brother and currently in charge of the city.

“I have summoned you here at the King’s request,” he began once everyone was seated around a richly inlaid table in a small private study. “I am instructed to give to all the facts, as we currently understand them, in regard to recent events.

“As we have publicly announced, Tyendus fell three nights ago, to a surprise attack. It seems that a squad of Ethmoniri barbarians were able to sneak into the city during the day, and after midnight they ambushed and murdered the guards on the River Gate. They then opened the gates, allowing a large strike force to cross the Bellanin Bridge and seize control of the whole district.

“With their bridgehead secured, the full army that had been gathering at Kar Olsepor these last tendays was able to enter the city unimpeded. The garrison did their best, as the fighting went street to street, but surprise and the ferocity of the attack – half the “soldiers” seems to be barbarians survivors report – doomed them.

“Apparently the Crown Prince and the Princess managed to escape by the Vinkara Gate before the citadel fell, thank all the Immortals… although Prince Korun was wounded at some point. How badly, we don’t know. The courier raven was maddeningly vague…

We know my nephew and niece, with their guards, made it to Dor Lorethal, only to find it under siege by a barbarian force. Apparently… and this is hard to understand… Princess Miralda, somehow, lead an attack on the enemy’s rear, breaking  the siege… the King fears that this means Korun is more seriously wounded than… or maybe…”

Ser Koris ran his hands through his hair in frustration. There was more gray there than the last time we met, Mariala thought to herself.

“Well, that’s just it – we don’t know! And the King must know, soon. But it is imperative that he strikes quickly, before the Tharkians have a chance to consolidate their grip on our stolen land, and he can spare none of his forces to secure his children.

“Therefore, he asks that you all come, by the fastest means you know,” and here the knight looked slightly askance at Mariala, magic making him uncomfortable, “to Kar Urkonis. He wishes to speak with you privately, about what I’m sure you can all imagine.”

The Hand, of course, agreed immediately, and after a brief consultation with the Mistress of Esoterica for her knowledge of Nitaran gates in both Shalara and Urkonis, they returned to New District to prepare for their journey.

♦ ♦ ♦

Devrik, who had been growing increasingly concerned about the safety of his wife and son in recent days, decided now was the time to act. Using the linked parchment Mariala had provided him and Raven, he concisely outlined his plan, asking her and their son Aldari to meet the group at Dor Lorethal as soon as was possible. A separate note to Ser Alakor ensured a proper escort for mother and child.

Vulk called on Lady Lania, the Countess Kinen, to thank her for her hospitality and explain why they were leaving the city. She immediately seized the opportunity to request that she and her daughter, the Maid Carissa be allowed to accompany them.

“I have been thinking for days that it might be best for us to leave the capital. I know it is unlikely an attack will come here, but I would feel better closer to home, and I know my daughter Thalisa, the Countess Yorma, would be pleased to have us at Kar Urkonis. It would also put us closer to my husband, since he’d rather we not return to Kar Vinkara just yet, given the barbarian troubles in the north…

“Both Carissa and myself have the utmost confidence in you and your friends, and I can’t imagine a better escort on the road!”

“Under normal circumstances, m’lady,” Vulk replied diplomatically, “we would be pleased to act as your escort. But we travel now not by roads, but by… more esoteric paths.”

“Ah, you intend to Gate to Kar Urkonis,” the Countess said, looking momentarily nonplussed. But she quickly rebounded, and nodded her head decisively. “Well, I’ve never traveled that way before, but frankly, it’s even better than risking the roads… assuming five more people would not be a problem?”

‘Um, no, m’lady,” Vulk answered reluctantly. “It stretches things a bit, but wouldn’t be absolutely prohibitive… but Lady Lania, I could not guarantee your safety! You must know that Gate travel is inherently dangerous; I can tell you from personal experience that you do not always end up where you intended! Even the most skilled Gate-travelers cannot be assured of a successful, or safe, journey.”

“It can hardly be less safe than the roads right now, Cantor Ser Vulk. I am willing to take the chance… and I know my daughter will be thrilled to experience real ‘magic’ of this sort!”

Vulk continued to try and dissuade the lady from her wish, but in the end he gave in. It was hard to believe that a year ago she was a frail shell of herself, on the verge of death. Seeing her now, with that steely determination beneath a genteel, matronly exterior, he could understand why the Earl would risk so much to restore her to this.

♦ ♦ ♦

It was early afternoon when all the preparations had been made and the Hand returned to Kar Landsar. They were greeted by both Ser Koris and Derwen Verdeth, the Mistress of Esoterica, who led them up to a medium sized chamber in the tallest tower of the castle. Lady Lania, Maid Carissa, their two maids and a major domo were already there.

“Welcome to the Gate of Shalara,” Mistress Verdeth said as the last person crowded into the room. “As His Majesty has requested, I shall help you open the way Urkonis, and teach you the Patterns for both this Gate and that.”

She didn’t seem to be all that pleased to be sharing such privileged information with johnny-come-lately interlopers – Mariala sensed she felt more than a little threatened by both her and Devrik – but she knew which side her bread was buttered on. And who buttered it.

As Verdeth instructed Vulk and Devrik in the Patterns, Mariala looked over and winked at the Maid Carissa, who was almost beside herself with excitement at the prospect of not only seeing powerful magics at work, but being a part of it all. Only a certain tightness of the mouth betrayed her mother’s tension, even as she smiled indulgently at her daughter.

When all was ready, Mistress Verdeth, with Devrik and Vulk flanking her, one hand placed atop each of her outstretched hands, began a low chant.  Slowly a shimmer seemed to fill the air in the center of the room, expanding outwards until it was three meters across, barely visible even to the trained eye. When Vulk gave the signal, they all moved forward towards the shimmer, and one by one the travelers disappeared. Devrik and Vulk were the last ones through…

♦ ♦ ♦

The Gate of Urkonis was located not in a tower, or even in a wooded grove, but in a large cave beneath the castle. Over the centuries it had been worked and sculpted into an impressive chamber with pillars into likenesses of exotic plants and animals, and a domed ceiling of purple-veined white marble. Great iron-bound oak doors barred the only exit from the chamber, and guards were posted outside, small grates in the wall allowing them to see in and question arriving travelers.

Lady Thalisa, the Countess Yorma, was summoned as soon as the party had identified itself, and soon the Hand was seated in another private study. After seeing to their comfort, the Lady bore off her mother and sister to their own rooms and a private chat. A few minutes after they had left, the door to the study opened again and three men entered – King Maldan I, Lord Sedris Kleftin, the Earl Yorma, and Lord Karsin Tobalin, the Baron Ludolin. They all looked tired and worried, but the latter looked positively haggard.

“Thank you for coming so quickly,” the King began without preamble, motioning everyone to stay seated. “I have a task for you, if you will undertake it, one I think your group is uniquely suited to.”

“I’m sure we stand ready to help you in whatever way we can, Your Majesty,” Vulk replied, bowing in his seat. The others murmured assent.

“I wish you to recover my children from their refuge at Dor Lorethal, and bring them here,” Maldan said bluntly. “I can’t spare enough troops to feel certain of their safety, and in any case I understand my son is wounded… very seriously, if he let his sister lead an attack…”

The King looked momentarily distracted, then he shook his head, straightened his back, and continued.

“My children know you, from our journey south together earlier this month, which is one advantage in sending you. Another is the considerable skill set you bring, both in the physical and arcane realms. But of overriding concern to me now is Cantor Ser Vulk’s healing abilities… if Prince Korun is as badly wounded as… as I fear, then the sooner you can attend to him the better.”

Vulk looked suddenly pale, but wisely refrained from saying anything.

“My mother-in-law speaks very highly of you all,” Lord Sedris said, leaning forward. He was as tall, dark haired, gray eyed, square of jaw and charismatic as they all remembered. “Especially of the healing potions of your comrade Ser Draik. We know he is not with you, but Dor Dür is not far from Lorethal… perhaps, if it is necessary…” he spread his hand in question.

“Yes,” Vulk nodded. “It is possible to contact him, and he might meet us there…”

“Good!” said the King. “Very good! But let me be clear on one point – as much as I appreciate your willingness to use the Nitaran system to reach me as quickly as I needed you to, I don’t wish you to risk such travel with my children. My Master of Horses will outfit you with fast steeds and strong remounts, enough for you all and the children – when the Crown Prince is well enough to travel, in your opinion Ser Vulk, then ride straight to Urkonis. They will be safe here, under the care of Lady Thalisa and the protection of the Earl’s garrison.”

Suddenly the Lord Karsin leaned forward, his eyes red-rimmed and glaring. “And if you can do this, then I have a request, of you and of the King – rescue my children next!” His jaw worked convulsively as he tried to continue, but the King put his hand on his shoulder and eased him back.

“The Baron is distraught,” he said quietly. “And for good reason. The same night that Laravad’s treachery took Tyendus, a similar betrayal allowed him to seize the keep at Ludolin, the Baron’s seat… we have had news just today that Lady Seria… died trying to defend her children. And they have let it be known that the children are alive and prisoner in their own home.”

“So young,” the Baron groaned. “Seria is but 17, and Karsin barely 15…”

♦ ♦ ♦

The next morning, in the cold, misty hour before dawn, the Hand prepared to ride out from Kar Urkonis. The King was there to see them off, despite the fact that his army was preparing to march. He was already in his armor, and his squire stood a short way off holding his helmet and his battle sword.

“My prayers go with you,” he said quietly as they stood together in a circle of torch light. “It may be that we will finish this quickly, and all of my fears will be for naught.

“I have a strong right arm in Lord Sedris, his men are fiercely loyal to him, and good fighters. And if Lord Clarin can bring even a third of the Army of the North to us in the next few days… Meanwhile, our enemy is disunited – Laravad is as big a fool as rumor makes him, to try to combine barbarians with a civilized army. Although the Lady of Luck has favored the fool so far…

“Cantor Ser Vulk – although I’ve already had the blessings of my own chaplain this gray morning, would you favor me with your blessing as well? Kasira seems to smile on you, and I would not refuse such grace for myself.”

Vulk lifted his baton and as the King knelt before him called a heartfelt blessing down on the monarch, his army, and his family. Rising to his feet, the King seemed somehow lighter, as if a weight had been lifted.

“May the Immortals go with you, my friends,” he said, saluting them. Then he turned and strode back towards his squire, and both soon vanished in the morning mists.

♦ ♦ ♦

It as just after noon the next day when the Hand rode into the village of Lorethal, huddled beneath the gray walls of the keep. It was obvious that war had passed over this small town – several buildings, including the local temple, were burned to the ground, a few others were visibly damaged, and the field before the gates was a churned mess, as if a battle had been fought there.

The patrolling squads of heavily armed soldiers were jumpy and suspicious, but they eventually accepted the group’s credentials, and let them pass up to the keep. There they again had a time convincing the guards of their bona fides, until a commanding female voice ordered the gates opened.

The Princess Miralda looked rather different than the last time the group had seen her. Still tall, dark blond and possessing a face that was perhaps too strong to be strictly beautiful, she no longer wore the fine riding dress of twenty days ago, but instead a simple frock of brown and green wool. Her air of distracted diffidence was also gone, replaced by an aura of steely competence.

She recognized the Hand, of course, and lead them into the Great Hall of the keep as stable hands saw to the horses. Once everyone was seated and servants had poured watered wine all around, they were joined by a man, perhaps 30, who had recently seen hard fighting. Dark hair and brown eyes, he hovered protectively near the Princess.

“The captain of my guard, Borain Loxarin,” she introduced him. “I don’t know if you met when last we traveled together…”

“Not that I recall, Princess,” Vulk said. “But before anything else, I must ask to see your brother – we know he was wounded, and your father asked me to bring my healing skills to him as soon as was possible.”

Miralda looked briefly down, and when she looked back up there were tears in her eyes. “My brother is dead, Ser Vulk. He died the evening of the day we arrived.”

“I’m so sorry, Your Highness,” Vulk said, sinking back in his chair as shocked murmurs went around the table. “How… we heard he was wounded in escaping Tyendus,,,”

“Actually, it was after that,” Captain Loxarin spoke up. He looked at the Princess, and continued when she nodded. “The Crown Prince was reluctant to leave the city while there was any chance of repelling the invaders… but when it was obvious the city had fallen, and the citadel was next, I convinced him to… depart.”

“Flee, was how he put it, actually,” Miralda said with a small, sad smile.

“Yes, well, in any case we were able to get out of the keep by the postern gate with our horses, my squad of twenty men-at-arms, the Crown Prince, his squire, the Princess and her maid… and me, of course. We set off across country… and picked up some refugees along the way…”

“Niether Captain Loxarin nor my brother was happy about it,” the princess put in. “But I was not going to leave those poor people to suffer – I saw what those animals did to our people… to the women, even the children…”

“Yes, well, so there we were, slowed down a bit by having to double up to carry the three women, two men and seven children… I figured we had maybe two hours before dawn to get to some sort of cover… which turned out to be about right.

“Unfortunately, just as we reached the shelter of the forest north of the city, we met an outrider patrol of the invaders. Ethmoniri tribesmen, maybe a dozen of them… the odds didn’t faze them a bit, they just whooped in to the attack… maybe they figured the women and kids would hinder us.

“But they were wrong, and we beat them off, killing most of them before the survivors turned tail. But that’s when the Prince was wounded – an Ethmoniri knife in the side. It didn’t seem too bad, at first, but by noon he wasn’t able to stay in the saddle… I carried him in front of me, but it slowed us down even more.

“So it wan’t until the next morning that we approached Dor Lorethal. But we’d encountered some burned out farms, and I had a bad feeling… so I sent scouts ahead. The news they brought back wasn’t good. The town was taken and the keep was besieged. My men had found and killed four sentries, and didn’t think there were more, at least on this side of the keep, but I knew they’d be missed eventually.

“Of course the fortress itself wasn’t in much danger, since the invaders seemed to be about 80 tribesmen with a company of 20 Tharkian knights supposedly in “command,” so they had no siege equipment. But that didn’t help us. I was all for turning back south and west, maybe make for Kar Urkonis –”

“Which would have taken another three days,” Miralda interrupted. “Korun didn’t seem like he had three days. We needed medical help soon. He was already delirious, drifting in and out. I insisted on seeing the situation for myself, and when he couldn’t talk me out of it, Borain, that is Captain Loxarin, made me put on as much of Korun’s armor as possible. It was my idea to take the sword.

“He also insisted on taking the entire troop with us, less one man to watch over my brother and the refugees… one of the women was a midwife, and was doing all she could for Korun. So from the edge of the forest we watched… most of the invaders had gathered in front of the main gate, out of arrow range, of course, and there seemed to be some sort of parley going on.

“It quickly became obvious that the commander of the Tharkian knights had challenged the keep’s commander to single combat… and my idiot half-uncle had agreed! Oh, did I mention that my father’s half brother, Ser Tualth Kalafon holds this keep as the Sheriff of Kinenshire? Everyone in the family thinks he’s a twit, and I’d say this stunt proved it. Except that if he hadn’t agreed to it…

“Well, when we realized what was happening, I had Borain send for the horses, and even go the two peasant men up and armed. I figured it was all or nothing, and my captain agreed… although he was rather shocked when I mounted up and insisted on leading the attack!”

“Shock doesn’t cover it,” the captain said dryly. “If she hadn’t already started to charge I’d have pulled her off that damn horse and sat on her… as it was, I had no choice but to follow her! The gates of the keep were open, Ser Tualth was advancing with his squire to meet Ser Goren Veldaran (as we later learned), and the invaders were totally focused on the upcoming sport.

“The sight of this berserker warrior woman, screaming and waving her sword as she plunged into their rear, must have stunned them – we cut down a dozen before they started to get their wits about them. I’ve been training the Princess since she was 15, at her father’s command, but even I was surprised at her skill and focus in battle.”

Miralda blushed and shrugged. “Daddy always said I should know how to protect myself in a hard, cold world.”

“Yes, well in spite of all that,” Loxarin continued, “we’d  have been lost soon enough if Ser Tualth’s own guard captain, Jefar Hamdon, hadn’t been on the ball. He had tried to talk his lord out of, but the Sheriff insisted it was a mater of honor. He demanded that Hamdon abide by the agreement if he lost, and surrender the keep. I gather the man had no intention of doing that, however, and he managed to convince the Sheriff to allow him to have his men mounted and ready in the courtyard in case the enemy proved less honorable than himself.

“So, when we hit the enemy from behind, Captain Hamdon ordered his own 40 men to the attack. Even in the heat of battle, I have to say the Sheriff’s look of shock and outrage as his men streamed past him was priceless.”

“He’s still sulking in his rooms,” Miralda added. “He can’t argue with the results, but he insists his ‘honor’ has been sullied. Twit.”

“We were still out numbered, of course,” Loxarin went on. “But not by much, and surprise is a tremendous force multiplier. We routed the motherless bastards, killing 55 tribesmen and nine Tharkians, and captured 11 knights. No Ethmoniri let himself be taken alive, and the survivors melted into the forest. I’d have liked to hunt them down, but –”

“Wasn’t practical,” Miralda said firmly. “We lost seven men, the garrison lost nine, and we had my brother to think about. We got him into the keep and in a proper bed, but there was little the Sheriff’s doctor could do… infection had set in. And the local cantor had been killed when the barbarians torched the temple, so there was no one to even preserve him at the moment of… when he died that night.

“Unfortunately, I’d had them send off a message by raven as soon as we were secure in the keep – the last raven, as it turned out, So when Korun… later, there was no way to send the news. But maybe that’s not so bad after all… it would be awful for Father to hear the news that way…”

Everyone was silent for a few moments as they contemplated this amazing story. Finally Vulk broke the spell, clearing his throat.

“We are very sorry for your loss, my lady,” he said gravely. “It is a blow to the whole realm, to be sure. But you are the Heir now, and and our duty to your father remains clear. We must get you to the safety of Kar Urkonis as soon as possible.”

“Oh, I don’t know about the Heir thing,” the princess shrugged. “Father had the Succession Council agree to my brother while he still had them all in one place, and the fear of war was fresh in their minds. Now… the situation has changed. War is upon us, and if anything were to happen to the King… Agara forfend that it does… well, who knows what would happen?”

“Nonetheless,” Vulk insisted. “You are the Heir Apparent, and your father’s orders are clear. How soon can you be ready to go?”

♦ ♦ ♦

As it turned out, not the next day. Which was just as well, since it wasn’t until the next morning that Raven, Aldari, Black Hawk, Draik and 20 Hand of Vengeance mercenaries arrived at the gates. Devrik’s family reunion was everything he’d hoped it would be, and that night they let Uncle Black Hawk babysit his nephew while they got… reacquainted. Several times.

Vulk was thrilled to see his old friend again, and after a good meal and several drinks, Draik pulled out a leather satchel and showed of his latest advancement in the field of Baylorium. Opening the satchel, he pointed to two rows of six vials each, held firmly in place by leather loops.

“Behold,” he said dramatically. “The very latest in miraculous medical magic – Baylorium-7!”

“Very nice,” said Erol, picking up one of the vials. “Looks like… curdled milk.”

“And smells like chicken that’s been left in the sun too long,” Draik replied, taking the vial back. “But that’s not the point. The point is, the healing properties are the point. It’s designed for open wounds – cuts, abrasions, punctures… even burns. Used as a topical, the base doubles the healing rate of such wounds. Which is great, of course, but hardly miraculous, right?”

His friends nodded in agreement. Toran poured more wine.

“But, when you add a drop of your own blood…” Draik paused for dramatic effect. Mariala rolled her eyes.

“…and let it sit in a warm place for 75 hours… it attunes itself to your specific biological structure! And then, when you apply it to a wound, the healing rate is somewhere between 10 and 12 times normal! A wound that would take a tenday to heal normally is healed in a single day, or less!”

That got everyone’s attention. Vulk picked up a vial and looked closely at it. It did look a lot like curdled milk… with a…  was that a faint blue tint?

“And I’m really excited to see what it does in conjunction with your psionic healing ability, Vulk,” Draik went on. “My theory is that it could boost the efficacy of the Baylorium-7 by an order of magnitude – a hundred-fold increase in healing rate for the keyed version!

“I’m just sorry I wasn’t able to use it on the poor Prince…”

“Still, it should come in quite handy in our line of work,” Erol said thoughtfully. “How long does the keyed balm stay potent? Ot the base version, for that matter?”

“Well, at the moment, the base retains full potency for about a month, decreasing in potency by 20% for every five days after that… so less than two months before it’s just a foul smelling cream. It turns an increasingly dark shade of blue after that first month, until it’s almost black.

“Once you’ve added blood to it – just a single drop is enough – and it’s “cooked” for three days, then it remains fully effective for a tenday. Potency drops by 20% every day after that. By day 15 it’s gone from the pale pink of full potency to the red-black of uselessness.”

“This really is amazing, Draik,” Mariala said. “This will change everything – military medicine alone will be revolutionized!”

“Mmmm, well, maybe someday,” Draik shrugged. “But at the moment it’s difficult and time-consuming to make, doesn’t last very long, and it doesn’t travel well in bulk– large batches tend to lose efficacy more quickly than small ones. These vials are the optimum size, so far.  Oh, and extremes of both heat and cold renders the stuff inert. It’s also not exactly cheap. But I’m working on all of that –”

“What is the temperature range?” Vulk asked, carefully replacing the vial in its proper slot.

“Down to just above freezing, at which point it turns to a crystalline mush, and up to a really hot summer day, when it liquifies completely. That’s why I had this special satchel made for me by an Avikor mage I know in Tyendus.” Draik frowned as he recalled the fate of that city, and wondered if the woman was still alive. “Regardless of the ambient temperature around it, it keeps the interior at normal human body temperature. Which is about the perfect temperature for “cooking” the keyed version, by the way.”

“How many doses are there per vial?” Korwin asked, while eyeing the satchel and wondering if he could reverse-engineer the spell that made it work.

“Depends on the size of the wounds and the amount of tissue damaged, really. I’ve found that I can usually heal three “average” life-threatening wounds with a vial. With lesser wounds it would go farther, obviously, but it’s an expensive way to treat scratches.

“In any case, this is for you,” he concluded, handing Vulk the satchel. “I’ll try to have more ready for you in a month or so, assuming this damn war doesn’t interfere.”

♦ ♦ ♦

The next day, the 28th of Metisto the group set out from Dor Lorethal for Kar Urkonis shortly after sun-up. The Sheriff had deigned to come out to see his niece off, but remained aloof and apparently depressed. Draik wished them all well, gave the baby a last avuncular kiss, and headed north with his Hand of Vengeance escort.

The group now consisted not only of the Hand of Fate, but one princess, one maid, one wife, one baby, one brother-in-law, one Guard Captain, 13 men-at-arms, and 15 remount horses. Putting the rising sun on their left, the party set out on the road to Kar Urkonis.

The coronation of King Maldan I came off without any further incident, once the Royal Regalia were restored to their rightful place, and the Hand of Fortune had, if not front row seats, at least really good ones. Near the front and just off to the right in the vast nave of the Great Temple.

For all that it was a hurried affair, with war looming on the horizon, the coronation was done with all pomp and ceremony, all the forms and traditions observed, and no room left for doubt that there was a new, and very legitimate, king on the throne of Nolkior.

After a rule of almost thirty years, there were many present who remembered no king other than the elderly Garinalt, but the general consensus seemed to be that a good choice had been made. Maldan had governed the royal seat ably for many years, and was a proven war leader… between volcanic eruptions, barbarian invasions, and now the threat of attack from Tharkia, people were nervous, and they wanted stability, continuity and strength. King Maldan seemed to embody all three.

While there were many parties throughout the city that evening, the new king made only a perfunctory appearance at the official Coronation Ball before retiring to his private chambers, with his closest advisors, to go over the latest intelligence from the north and from the east. The Hand, however, enjoyed the free-flowing food and drink long into the night, along with the congratulations and flattery of much of the Court. The story of the stolen Regalia had been as suppressed as far as possible, but various garbled versions of the event had already circulated throughout every social stratum of the city, and the wisdom of Mariala’s advice to Maldan had thus proved itself.

“There is no way to keep something like this quiet,” she had told the King-elect after they had surreptitiously returned to the castle that morning, the Regalia carefully hidden within one of the many casks of Kaluran wine taken from the Zalik-mal warehouse. “The best lie is one that has a core of truth… let it go about that this Hadrel Kervisan, a known and infamous captain of the so-called “Thieves Guild,” had plotted to attempt to steal the Royal Regalia… after it had been removed from its unbreachable resting place.

“His plot was discovered, and he and his crew were foiled even as they set about implementing their ignoble plan. The virtue of this story, besides allowing you to hang the villain without risking false charges, is that it accommodates any bits of the real story that may leak out, allowing them to be passed off as corruptions or misunderstandings of the ‘actual’ facts.”

“There is wisdom in that,” the new monarch had replied thoughtfully. “In addition, it allows me to reward you all as befits your work on my behalf, both at the northern frontier and here in the capital, without undue questions from my nobles.

“Between the slaughter of the undead gülvini and the foiling of this nefarious plot – I have fought a long war with the damn Zalik-mal in Kolosür for years, so it is entirely believable that they might try to embarrass me or even prevent my ascension – and your involvement in bringing down that scum Bernan at the Tournament last year has not been forgotten…yes, no one will doubt you to be deserving of the honors I plan to bestow.”

What those honors might be, however, he gave no hint.

It wasn’t until the third day after the coronation that the Hand were summoned to Court for an evening audience with the new King. It was a small affair, but very formal – many of the highest lords and ladies of the realm were present, including Lady Lania, Countess of Kinen, and her daughter Carissa. The young maid could hardly container her excitement as Mariala, Vulk, Devrik, Erol, Toran and Korwin filed into the throne room, past the glittering assemblage of nobility on either side, to stand before the King.

The Royal Herald read aloud the accomplishments of the members of the Hand of Fortune in support of the throne of Nolkior, both to the current king and to his father before him. Mariala was embarrassed, Vulk gratified, Devrik stoic (but secretly quite pleased), Erol uncomfortable in the unfamiliar Court clothing, Korwin insufferably smug, and Toran bemused by it all.

“It pleases Us,” the King said once the herald had finished, “to reward these loyal servants of the Crown, as befits their service… though only one is actually Our subject.

“Dame Mariala Teryne-Danoc!”

Mariala stepped forward and went to one knee before the King.

“You are already a Knight of the Realm, and so We now name you a member of the Order of the Azure Horn, with all the rights and responsibilities thereof. We were well pleased to learn that your father has at last acknowledged you as his daughter and one of his heirs. We know something of such matters, of course, and are glad now to raise you up as the Margrave of Green Tower, a title dormant these last 80 years but now yours and your heirs as long as the Realm shall last. With this title comes possession of the Green Tower of Shalara as well as the income from various properties appertaining to said estate, both within the city and in the hinterlands. Rise Lady Mariala, Margrave of Green Tower!”

Mariala rose somewhat shakily to her feet, to the applause of the gathered nobles, and the herald stepped forward, pressing a packet of documents into her hands. Bowing to the throne, she stepped back and broke into a dazed grin.

“Ser Vulk Elida!” the King called out next. Vulk strode forward and also went to one knee, head bowed.

“You are already a knight of our Brother, Dorikon of Aurshal, but We know there will be no conflict in your accepting entry onto the Order of the Azure Horn as well. Accept also from Our hand the title to the estate of Krendan House, and all incomes from the properties appertaining thereto.”

Taking his own packet of deeds from the herald, Vulk rose, bowed and stepped back, as the next companion was called forward.

“Devrik Askalan, like most of your companions you are a son of another land. We understand that Our loyal vassal the Earl Kinen once wished to make you a Knight of Nolkior, but was unable to so honor an alien. We were present that day of the great Tournament, when the infamous Danyes Bernan was convicted for his treasons by the testimony and actions of you and your friends. So it greatly pleases Us now to finally reward you as you deserve – Rise Ser Devrik, Knight of the Order of the Silvereye, adopted son of Nolkior!”

Along with his patent of knighthood, Devrik also received the deed to a great house in the city, and the rental income from related properties, as he stepped back, making way for Erol. His stoic mask slipped as he grinned at Mariala and Vulk, his goal of knighthood at last achieved. Next on the list, the title of Equestrian in his own land…

“Erol Doritar, another son of Kildora, and wanderer in many lands – for the same reasons, and with the same pleasure, We make you a Knight of Nolkior as well, of the Order of the Silvereye, and grant to you such properties and monies as befits your new station. As with Ser Devrik, We know Lord Clarin would be most gratified to see you so graced today.”

Erol rose, bowed, and took his documents from the herald. It was a long way from the Taruthani Games in a Darikaz, to be sure, and nothing he’d ever expected… but it still wasn’t the Republic…

“Korwin Seaborn, scholar of that great eastern Empire that once held sway over these lands many centuries ago, We welcome you to our shores and make you a Knight of the Order of Shala. Accept such lands and rents as seem good to Us to bestow, and let them bind you to Our Realm in honor and amity.”

“And lastly, We would honor Toran, called the Quickhand, a son of our cousins the Khundari and a great warrior as well as a scholar. But We are lead to understand that by the oaths sworn to your own Prince, and the laws of your people and the custom of your land, you may not accept such honors as We would bestow. It is meet that this should be so, but still We would not see you, alone, go unrewarded for your courage and honor.

“In the papers which you yourself but lately brought to Our dear father, and so to Us, Prince Rhoghûn has proposed closer ties between his realm of Dürkon and Our own kingdom. In these troubled times this seems good to Us, and so you are named official Legate to Nolkior, and given unto your keeping is the storied mansion, built by one of your own in years past and long known amongst Our people as Khundari House. Hold it in safe keeping for your Prince, and as a refuge for those of your own folk who will come hither as an official embassy in due time.”

And with that, the audience was over. King Maldan rose with a smile for his new noblewoman and knights, and exited from the room by the door behind his throne. The rest of the Court moved in on the friends, offering congratulations, in varying degrees of sincerity, and angling to get close to these rising stars who seemed to have the favor, and perhaps the ear, of their new monarch.

Some time later they were pulled aside my the king’s major domo, and taken into a private chamber where he proceeded to fill them in on their new properties.

“It took some doing,” the little man said as he seated them around a large table, before taking his own seat at the head. “But the King wanted it so, and I managed to pull it off. Actually, the idea presented itself when I pointed out to His Majesty that the Lady Ethalyn the Elder had somehow wrangled ownership of Krendan House from  the Crown several years ago. It’s proximity to the Green Tower, which he already intended to bestow on Lady Mariala, inspired him to see what could be done in keeping your little group in close proximity…

“As you may have noticed, Lady Ethalyn the Elder is no longer at Court, having found things a bit hot for her… nothing can be proven of her involvement in the recent… unpleasantness… but it has been made clear she would be best served by a prolonged absence from the capital. Although it was also made clear that her daughter would be remaining – under the King’s benevolent protection, of course. In addition, the Lady thought it wise to divest herself of certain properties, not least of which was Krendan House.

“An interesting story there, Ser Vulk,” the major domo said in an aside. ” The mansion which now comes into your possession was originally built by the Kleros of Kasira who founded the temple to your Patron that sits nearby. It was during the period of rebuilding that followed the Great Fire of 2897, when the whole north side of the city, only a few years inside the then-new city walls, burned to the ground. Very few buildings survived (the Green Tower being one of them, my Lady), and New District was wide open for construction.

“Kleros Antros Krendan was young and ambitious and personally quite wealthy, and his construction of a temple to his Immortal Patron was quite a feather in his cap. Indeed, it seemed to spur him on to further heights, and he built both the scholarium and his own Klerosian mansion after the temple was finished. Unfortunately, he had a rather unfortunate addiction to gambling – well, not unfortunate for a long time, it’s how he could build so lavishly. But in the end, the Lady of Luck seemed to turn her back on her Kleros, and in a single season he was bankrupt. The embarrassing irony was not lost on his superiors. He was replaced and his mansion claimed by his creditors, from whom the Crown eventually acquired it some years later.

“Quite an opulent place, I’m lead to understand, although it has faded somewhat over the years. How Lady Ethalyn got her claws on it – er, came into possession of it – I’m not quite sure, but you’ll be glad to know she poured rather a lot of money into its restoration in the last two years. I hope you will enjoy the fruits of her efforts, Ser.” The man gave Vulk a conspiratorial wink.

“In any case, I now had two adjacent properties in hand, and it was but the work of a few hours to acquire several other appropriate mansions nearby – Twin Gables, Ser Devrik, and Ironstone, Ser Erol, were both already owned by the Crown, and making the current lease holders see the advantages of moving was little trouble. Safewell, Ser Korwin, had been abandoned for over forty years, since the execution of Torgoth Kemptor, the infamous canary trainer and serial murderer. His heirs were more than happy to let the Crown take it for the back taxes… although I fear it may require some work to make it quite livable again.

“Khundari House has long been empty,” the man went on, turning to Toran,” as the title has been in some dispute for several decades… since the death of the Khundari master builder Serath Strikestone, in fact. It was he who oversaw the construction of the new city walls and the dismantling of the old ones 130 years ago. In fact, he built his own home from the stones of the old walls, which is perhaps why it gives such an impression of age.

“On his death some 20 years ago, his widow and son decided to return to Dürkon, where she has only recently died herself. The son has never evinced an interest in the property, and the Crown has long contended that it is abandoned, having never been sold or the title otherwise transferred. This current solution should settle the matter nicely, and I’ve heard many neighbors say it will be good to have a Khundari in residence once again on Khundari Square.”

“Of course the most interesting of all these buildings I’ve saved for last. The Green Tower is much older than any of the buildings surrounding it, and not just by virtue of having survived the Great Fire. No, it was old when the first city walls went up, and it sat outside the city for many centuries before she grew around it. Who built the tower, and exactly when, is lost to the mists of time… but in the last 400 years it has been the seat of the Margraves of Green Tower, a fief created specifically for the arcane lord who possessed it.

“Almost every Margrave has been a mage of one sort or another, the first one being a master of growing things – it was he who gave the tower its current name, actually. As you will see, the exterior walls of the edifice are covered in a lush vertical garden, which maintains itself in some miraculous fashion. Even the fire did little more than wilt the vegetation. Quite the tourist draw, I must say…

“The last Margrave of Green Tower was Hürlind Jekoru, a scholar of some repute and rather… eccentric. Sadly, he died without issue – a not uncommon occurrence with this Margravship, come to think on it – and the title reverted to the Crown these past 80 years. But now there is a Margrave again, and I’m sure the people of the district will be pleased to have a noble in residence once more, to whom they can come for the low justice, and to pay their rents directly.

“And best of all, all of these properties as close by one another, all within the New District area of the city, just north of Khundari Square, between the Artisans District and Wizardsgate!”

With that he handed each of them a set of keys, and wished them well with their new homes, which would be ready for possession first thing in the morning…

Prince Maldan was very pleased with the success of our heroes in defeating the now-undead  Gülvini warrior-woman Gana. With her (no doubt temporary) destruction, the disappearances had ceased, and tensions in the Army of the North had sunk back to merely those associated with barbarian incursions, dysentery and arguments over camp followers.

The handful of survivors, including the Prince’s best scout captain and Maid Carissa’s healer friend, spread the tale of the Hand’s harrowing battle with the undead hordes and their dramatic rescue of the prisoners. The tale quickly grew in the telling, until the picture of hundreds of slavering zamora, led by a monstrous gülmora ogress and her dozen hovguvai warrior-women, was firmly fixed in the popular imagination. Mariala  attempted to correct the story whenever she could – perversely, this only cemented her reputation as a powerful sorceress of becoming modesty and wisdom, trying to keep a low profile. The others had little interest in a reputation for humility, and did nothing to fight the rumors.

Indeed, Korwin actively encouraged whatever embellishments others might add, especially those involving his own arcane prowess. Strangely, this tended to lead to a general view that he was a bit of a blowhard, and probably not really that great of a wizard, if he had to tell you about it. Then, somehow, stories of his greatest foul-ups, such as freezing his companions almost to death, began to circulate, and he decided to adopt a dignified silence from then on.

On the second day back in camp, still recovering from their wounds and the horror of the Shadow that some had endured, a courier arrived on a blown horse, with an urgent message for the Prince. It wasn’t long before word spread around the camp, coming first to the ear of Vulk. He was again trying to get Devrik to talk about the terrible psychic scars he must have from losing so much of his soul to the Shadow, and growing increasingly frustrated with his friend’s laconic refusal to feel any particular angst, when a young page ran up, breathless.

“M’lord,” he gasped to Vulk, “his Highness requests your presence in his pavilion, along with any of your companions at hand.” He eyed Devrik warily.

Before Vulk could inquire as to the reason for this summons the lad burst out dramatically, and with a hint of self-importance, “The king is on his deathbed, they say! The Prince is being recalled to the capital!”

That was, indeed, the message the courier had borne, and within the hour the camp was astir with preparations to send the Prince and a large escort south. In meeting with Vulk, and the rest of the Hand, he expressed his desire that they should accompany him as a part of his official entourage. A royal desire being essentially synonymous with a royal order, they quickly agreed, of course.

“I must leave Lord Clarin here, in charge of the army,” he explained. “But I need people around me I can trust, and you have proven your worth to both me and the Earl. Indeed, it was his suggestion that I attach you to my entourage. It is not completely certain who the Succession Council will name, despite my father’s wishes and formal will… I have let men call me Crown Prince, but truly I am but the Heir Assumptive at this point, and I need as many discreet eyes and ears in Shalara as I can get… we must avoid a civil war at any cost, but I fear some rival claimants may…”

He trailed off in morose thought, and was quiet for a moment. Then he glanced back up at his guests and smiled wryly. “I suspect that Lord Clarin had more than one motive in encouraging me to take you south – I think he believes that his daughter Carissa will be more agreeable to being sent south if it is in the company of Dame Mariala.”

Mariala wasn’t sure if it was the promise of her company, so much as the lure of all the romance, pageantry and pomp of a royal coronation, that led to Carissa’s meek agreement to leave her nursing role at the front behind and accompany the Royal Entourage back to Shalara. And she was certainly delighted when the great cavalcade stopped for the night at the great castle of Vinkara, and her mother, the Countess of Kinen, announced her intention of joining the party, to act as her husband ‘s proxy at the King’s deathbed… and in whatever followed. Though there was some concern over her previously frail health, she assured all doubters that she was quite well enough to travel in the comfort of a royal procession.

When the growing entourage passed through Dür, the Countess was herself delighted to at last greet Ser Draik, whose marvelous elixir she credited with her amazing recovery. Between her insistence and the cajolery of his former comrades, he agreed to join the southward odyssey. His brother, the Constable of Dür, was relieved to pass on the responsibility of representing his liege at the upcoming ceremonies to him, being reluctant to leave his command while so much unrest lingered on the borders.

On the sixth of Metisto the cavalcade arrived in the walled city of Tyendus, there to take ship aboard a dozen royal barges arranged for the occasion. It was here that the Heir Assumptive left his two children, 18-year-old Prince Kormun, who had been blooded for the first time at the battle of Noneth Bridge, and 21-year-old Princess Miralda, a reserved and beautiful maiden said to bear a striking resemblance to their great-great-grandmother, Queen Belanin III. Their mother’s people were lords of the city, and Maldan felt they would be safer there than in the capital, at least until the succession was decided.

On the morning of the eighth Prince Maldan arrived in Shalara, and wasted no time in getting to his father’s bedside. Lady Lania, with the heartfelt agreement of her daughter, insists that the Hand, as well as Ser Draik, take up residence with them at the Earl of Kinen’s townhouse.

“It’s certainly large enough,” she said, overriding their polite demur’s, “and it’s perfectly situated so as to easily observe all the players in this upcoming game – most everyone, from the Earl of Burnan to that old harridan Princess Ethalyn (the old one, not her perfectly lovely daughter) has a home within a stone’s throw!”

Once they were settled in and rested a bit from their travels, Lady Lania called them to her rooms. Carissa was with her, looking slightly worried.

“I’m afraid this trip has been a bit more wearing on me than I’d hoped,” she said, reclining on silk chaise and sipping at a cup of hot chocolate. “If Ser Draik will undertake to provide me with more of his wonderful draught, however, I’m sure I will quickly regain my strength.

“In the meantime, there is a formal dinner tonight at Kar Landsar, the royal palace… a quiet affair, under the circumstances, but all the leading nobility and gentry will be there. It may be a deathwatch, but one still has to eat. I am sending Carissa in my stead – the family must be represented – and I would take it as a great favor if Ser Vulk and Sera Mariala would escort her. I was able to wrangle an extra seat… the rest of you may go along, of course, but I’m afraid the dinner itself will be a rather small affair. No more than thirty, I should think.”

And so it turned out. While the others roamed around the public areas of the ancient royal castle, Vulk and Mariala sat down to a low-key but sumptuous meal with almost all of the potential contenders for crown of Nolkior. Ser Koris Harabor, Marshal of the Royal Guard, was the nominal host, the only child of the King not at his bedside right then; Maldan and his half-brother Ser Tulath Kalafon, along with Tulath’s mother Dame Erila, kept the family vigil.

The ill-tempered Baron of Endol grumbled about the quality of both food and wine while his wife rolled her eyes. Princess Ethalyn the Elder kept a sardonic eye on all her relatives present; Mariala didn’t find the woman to be as bad as advertised. While she was certainly well passed her prime, she remained a handsome woman, and the silver streaks in her dark hair only gave her a certain gravitas. She was certainly more polite to the interlopers than some around the table!

Her daughter, Ethalyn the Younger, was a quiet beauty, who said little and barely picked at her food, unless her mother’s sharp gaze was upon her – then she made an effort, eating a bite and making small talk with those nearest her at the long table, until her mothers attention moved on. Then she seemed to fold back in on herself, as if she’d rather be anywhere else.

Ser Corwan Landsar, the  eldest legitimate scion of House Landsar, wealthiest knight in the realm, Sheriff of Thergashire, considered by some to be the best choice to succeed to the throne, appeared somber but at ease, making conversation with those around him. And subtly promoting himself without really seeming to do so, Vulk eventually realized. He was quite good at it, planting seeds of doubt about Maldan as a ruler, while praising him as a general. A born politician! Vulk doubted his auditors were even aware of it… except for Ethalyn the Elder, whose eyes, he noticed,  glittered appreciatively over a couple of particularly choice hits on the Heir Assumptive.

The Earl of Buran and the Archkleros of Nolkior were too far way to hear what Ser Corwan was saying, but from the looks the latter kept throwing at the voluble Sheriff, it seemed he had a good idea of the gist. Whispered asides to the Earl, whom everyone knew held a commanding influence on the Council, with a claim of his own to the throne, caused that nobleman to cast his own glances at his young cousin and shrug in apparent amusement. The Archkleros continued to look unamused.

The dinner ended early, with most of the familial and noble guests returning to their vigil in the series of rooms outside the dying king’s chamber, and the others returning to whatever accommodations they had in the city. Vulk and Mariala escorted the Maid Carissa back to her father’s mansion, then retired to their own rooms to brief the others on what they’d seen and heard.

Later that night, in the early hours of the morning, just after the third bell, King Gairnalt took his last breath, and Nolkior was without a monarch.

♦♦♦

The Succession Council was convened the second hour after dawn. The twenty-three men and women representing the senior leaders of the various branches of Clan Landsar met in the Scarlet Chamber of Kar Landsar, and immediately began hearing from the claimants. As the acknowledged eldest son and named heir of the late king, Prince Maldan was given the first hearing, but chose to hold his words until all other claimants had spoken.

His father, and his own agents, had done much in the short time since Maldan had been named heir to solidify his support, and the looming threat of war from the north provided a strong impetus for even the most ambitious rivals to think twice about the dangers of a divided realm. Thus, most of the claimants made only cursory appeals for their own cause, with the notable exception of Ser Corwan and Princess Ethalyn the Elder.

Ethalyn surprised everyone by making a plea not for herself, having once before been passed over, but for her daughter. She made an eloquent, reasoned argument that the realm needed a queen during this turbulent time, to care for the people’s souls while the men tended to the martial threats around them. She evoked Belanin III and argued that Maldan and Corwan’s best talents lay on the field of battle, where they should focus all their energies, leaving the reigning, as it were, to her daughter.

Corwan gave a masterful speech, rumor later had it, building a solid case for his own elevation to the throne without in any overt way attacking Maldan. Witnesses said that many of the councilors believed to be securely in the Prince’s bag appeared to be wavering. But it all came down to the Archkleros, himself a Landsar and one of the councilors, who would have to release the Sheriff from his sworn oath not to seek the throne, given in exchange for the Archkleros’ permission for him to wed an adherent of Kalos, years ago.

And he would not do it.

The Council adjourned late in the day, after several hours of closed-door debate (some said arguments) between Ser Corwan’s supporters and Archkleros Kalabin. Lord Torad, the Earl of Burnan, remained silent during these exchanges, a fact not lost on the sharpest of the observers present. He had indicated that he would take the penultimate speaker’s spot, and it was expected that his view would carry the day.

But the next day brought news that threw everyone’s plans into disarray. Word came from Tharkia, the some-time province of both Nolkior and Serviana, that the old king had been deposed by his son, who had claimed the throne as Laravad II, five days earlier. Further, the new monarch had announced an alliance with the Ethmoniri barbarians of the north, while simultaneously calling up his levies.

Succession business was set aside for the day as intelligence from the east began to pour in, and strategies were debated throughout the capital. Would Laravad II use his army to turn on his supposed allies, in an attempt to crush Tharkia’s old enemies with a surprise attack? Or would he combine with them to overrun northern and eastern Nolkior, a newer but even more feared enemy? It was surely insane for him to attack Nolkior, but rumor had long held that Laravad was going slowly mad from syphilis, and if it were true, who knew what crazed action might seem good to him.

The next day the Succession Council resumed its deliberations, and Maldan accepted Earl Burnan’s request to speak after him. The Prince made an impassioned plea for unity in this time of crisis, and pointed to his own strong military history and his years of able stewardship as the Constable of Kar Kolosür and the Sheriff of Daretshire. Then Lord Torad rose and gave an equally passionate speech in support of Prince Maldan, and outlining the numerous threats the realm now faced.

That afternoon the council voted Maldan Harabor as the next chief of Clan Landsar and thereby King of Nolkior. The vote was overwhelmingly in his favor, but was not unanimous, with Ethalyn the Elder and Ser Corwan voting against the tide. They were, however, the first to swear their oaths of loyalty to the new king-elect.

Given the latest news of Tharkian troop mobilizations, it was decided the coronation and formal investiture should happen as soon as possible. The ceremony was set for the third hour after sunrise on the day after next, the 13th of Metisto. Preparations began immediately, and within hours the entire city was a whirlwind of semi-panicked activity as every guild, association and district strove to outdo the others in showing their support for the new monarch.

The castle itself was apparently even worse, and the Hand was glad to be well out of it. They had been guaranteed decent seats at the ceremony in the Great Temple, and the extent of their involvement was to show up with the Countess and her daughter.

They were just sitting down one of those new-fangled “brunches” that were all the rage, enjoying Draik’s presence amongst them once again, when a servant entered the parlor they had appropriated for their own use to announce a visitor.

“Who is it, Jarin?” Mariala asked the youth, setting down her glass of pear juice and sparkling wine untasted.

“He won’t say, m’lady, and he’s all bundled up like one of them Dark Riders from the books…”

But before the lad could get carried away with his description the man himself entered, motioning the boy to leave them. Closing the door firmly behind the servant, the figure pulled back the hood of his cloak and tugged the scarf from his face, revealing the grim visage of King-elect Maldan I. Everyone jumped to their feet, but he impatiently waved them back and himself took an empty chair.

“The Royal Regalia is missing,” he said bluntly, in answer to their questioning looks. “And that is a potential disaster of the highest order!”

Helping himself to the sparkling wine, the soon-to-be-monarch launched into a concise explanation.

“This morning the Treasurer Royal, Ser Mirad Alkinil, and several servants entered the Royal Treasury to prepare the Regalia for my upcoming coronation, only to find every piece of it missing!

“Realizing the crisis this represented, he immediately sequestered the servants, said nothing to the guards, and then came straight to me. To avoid suspicion I waited until the normal changing of the guard before having the two who had been on duty overnight arrested and confined in the dungeon. They, of course, deny any complicity, and insist no one could have gotten in or out of the Treasury. Given that they are High Guards, under my brother Ser Koris’ command, I’m disinclined to doubt them… but in this troubled time, with divided loyalties possible on so many sides…

“If the Regalia are not found before the ceremony, there might not be a coronation. It is just possible we could push it through, using my father’s daily cornet, claiming, oh, I don’t know, that I’m a simple man, unpretentious, and my father’s crown is good enough for me, blah, blah, blah. But it would raise raise suspicion, whatever excuse I gave… and if demands were made to see the Regalia, as they surely would be since someone has gone to such lengths to make sure I can’t produce them, it would be seen as a bad omen of the gravest sort.

“Even the most hard-headed of my nobles holds a superstitious awe of those damn trinkets – Crown, Scepter and Reliquary. Most especially the Reliquary, which contains the skull of Kirdek Kelen, founder of the realm. Every monarch in the 500 years since has been invested carrying the Regalia, even the infamous usurper Tiraf Derosol  – indeed, it was his possession of the holy objects that granted him a legitimacy he could never otherwise have commanded.

“If they are seen to have disappeared from our most secure spot, seemingly my magic – or worse, divine intervention – it will be a severe blow to my legitimacy in the eyes of the people. Even those nobles who don’t buy into the superstition might be more than willing to play on it to reverse the decision of the Succession Council. And that will lead to civil war, something we can ill afford with barbarians to the north and that rabid weasel Laravad to the east.

“To make matters worse, this whole thing brings up the infamous disappearance of the Sword of Tarthin, in my grandfather’s time, from this same treasure vault! No one has ever explained how it was stolen, and despite the conquest of Tharkia, where it was alleged to have been purchased by a nobleman, it has never been recovered. Every disaster of the last 45 years has been blamed on the absence of that supposedly-enchanted bit of ironmongery, as will this disaster, no doubt.

“I dare not use the royal machinery to investigate this, the whole point of the plot – and it must be a plot, I don’t believe in divine intervention – is for it to be known that it has vanished. That is why I have come to you, in person, to ask for your help in this. I cannot use the royal Mistress of Esoterica to examine the minds of my guards, and I don’t wish to use the wrack – but I understand that you, Dame Mariala, possess considerable skills in this area. And the rest of you have proved both able and discreet in solving mysteries.

“Therefore, will you come now to Kar Landsar, interrogate my guardsmen, and see if you can find any clue as where the Royal Regalia has gone. If you can recover it before tomorrow morning, I will be profoundly indebted to you – you can name your reward, if it is in my power to give and it is no threat to the realm!  Will you help me in this dark hour?”

In the growing darkness of the aborted dawn, as the immense cloud of lightning-shot smoke loomed over them like the hand of Korön, the group made their way down to the chantry on the shore of the lake. By the time they arrived dozens of people were working frantically to rescue those trapped in the ruins of the collapsed wing, and a steady rain of ash had begun to fall.

While Mariala and Devrik, who cradled his restless son in the crook of his arm, sought out the Grand Master, the others, exhausted and battered as they were, lent what aid they could to the rescue effort. Vulk’s talents as a healer were sadly in some demand, and even Erol’s rough arena-trained first aid skills found use.

By the time the last survivor had been pulled from the rubble, and everyone was able to take shelter inside the remaining buildings, over an inch of fine, hot ash covered every surface, a mocking parody of a winter snowfall in dirty gray. Mariala had given a heavily edited version of their pursuit of the kidnappers to her former teacher, and stressed the urgency of finding a wet nurse for the newborn, and by now very hungry, newborn.

“It seems as if the Lady of Fortune smiles on you,” the old man said, “in this, if nothing else on this tragic day. One of the servant women, Mistress Hyslopa, gave birth a little over a ten-day ago. She is our cook, and her husband our master of hounds, so they live on the grounds, rather than in the village. I’m sure she would be more than happy to succor your unhappy infant.”

As indeed she was. Karla Hyslopaz was a robust woman of middle years, mother of four other children besides her newest addition, and as unflappable as Mariala remembered her, even in the face of volcanic eruptions, earthquakes and temporarily motherless babes. She also seemed to have fond memories of Mariala, and was pleased to help her and her friend.

Devrik, on the other hand, was less sure about handing his newborn son off to the care of a stranger, however well-regarded by his friend. The kid had been through more, in the first day of his life, than most people experienced in a lifetime… but he had to admit, he could not provide what the infant needed, and the crying was constant now… reluctantly, he handed the babe over to the smiling woman (she did look very maternal, he thought). The kid needed no prompting when an ample breast was presented to his seeking mouth, and he latched on like he was never going to let go!

“Oooh!” said Mistress Hyslopaz in amused surprise. “The poor chick must be starving!

“What’s the wee one’s name,” she asked Devrik, as the baby settled in to steady nursing, while she rocked the cradle that held her own newborn daughter.

“Um, well…” Devrik seemed unusually tongue-tied, Mariala thought in amusement. “We hadn’t yet decided on a name, and then with the kidnapping… I don’t want to name him without my wife. She’s already going to be upset with… all this…” No, Raven wasn’t going to be happy with this latest development at all, he thought with a mental wince.

“Hmmm. Well, we need to call him something while he’s here,” the wet nursed frowned. Then her face lit up with a smile. “I think “Lucky” will do, from all that you’ve told me.”

And so Devrik and Raven’s son gained his first nickname, before ever he gained his true name.

♦ ♦ ♦

The next day Devrik was adamant that he must try to get back to Dor Dür and his wife. He was frantic both to reunite mother and son, and to learn how Raven fared… Vulk was certain she would survive, but not knowing for sure… Unfortunately, Mariala had not had a chance to renew Draik and Alakor’s supply of her magic parchment before the pursuit of the kidnappers had begun, so there was no way to send or receive news from Dür.

Seeking the fastest way back, he ignored the warnings of several of the chantry’s  Xavar’na masters. They explained that all Nitaran Vortices in the region would be unusable for days, perhaps even weeks, due to the geo-magnetic interference along the ley lines caused by what was turning out to be one of the largest eruptions since the Age of Chaos. But he was determined, and so Mariala and Vulk followed him up to the high moor, where the group had first arrived, to oversee the attempt. Mariala carried a tightly swaddled Lucky in her arms, keeping his face covered against another fall of ash that had begun that morning.

With Mt. Katai, still billowing a massive pillar of smoke and ash into the sky, as a backdrop, Devrik focused his will on the twisting energies of the invisible portal. He was aware of a grating sense of wrongness, but was determined to force an opening. A throbbing pain behind the eyes quickly began, and grew worse as he repeatedly tried to get a mental grip on the shifting strands of energy that would bring him to his wife. By the gods, he would do it! Yes, there – if he could force that to move just so, and this one to –

Devrik didn’t even make a sound as his head snapped back and he dropped to the ground like a poll-axed steer.

Vulk rushed to his friend’s side, and found he was breathing, thank Kasira. But no amount of effort could bring him back to consciousness. He was just beginning to worry about how the Void they were going to get him back to the chantry when Jardin Kemalo, one of the relatively younger Xavar’na Masters (and a former teacher of Mariala), arrived. Two sturdy servants accompanied him, one carrying a stretcher over his shoulder.

“Ah, yes,” Master Kemalo said, nodding a greeting to his former student as he gazed down at Devrik’s limp form. “I rather expected to find your friend in this state. These Yalvan types are always so hot-headed… comes with the territory I expect.” He knelt down and peeled back the fallen man’s eyelids.

“Yes, a very nice case of aural shock, very nice indeed…. oh, you need not be too worried,” he said in response to the others’ sounds of distress. “He’ll be out for a day, maybe even two, and he’ll have a scorcher of a headache for the best part of a tenday, I should think. But he’ll survive, and be none the worse for having learned a lesson, eh?”

With that he directed the servants to load the comatose fire mage onto the stretcher, and they all trudged back down through the gray, heavy air to the chantry. Devrik was placed in the infirmary, where several teachers brought students in over the next two days, to be shown the very serious consequences of aural shock. Lucky, who had slept through it all, was again placed in the care of Mistress Hyslopa.

♦ ♦ ♦

While Mariala was unable to communicate with her friends at Dür, she did have parchments still attuned to others in Dürkon, Devok and aboard the Fortune’s Favor.

Lekorm Darkeye reported that a minor earthquake had done minimal damage in the City, but that ash was already beginning to fall as the winds turned to the northeast; he promised to send a courier to Dor Dür, with news of the baby’s rescue, and would pass on any reports on matters there as he received them.

To Magister Vetaris she sent as concise a report of recent events as the limitations of the parchment allowed. Not for the first time, she swore she’d find a way to increase the carrying capacity. Vetaris didn’t answer for several days, however, and she was just getting ready to send another message, when Master Kemalo appeared at her door.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you,” he began without preamble, “but there’s a bit of a crisis in the town, and we have no one to spare right now, with all the damage here, and out attempts to gather news… the Grand Master asks if you and your friends would go and see to it? Young Devrik should probably not yet be up and about, but the others…”

“Certainly,” Mariala replied, rising. “What is the nature of this crisis?”

“A runner from the town provost,” he sighed, “claims that they are being invaded by killer otters from the lake…”

In the event, it turned out that a tribe of K’hela Pah, a sentient species of quasi-humanoid (“they do look like a cross between otters and seals,” Erol later said, “except for those human eyes.”) had emerged from the lake that morning near the town’s fishing fleet, a mile west of the chantry. There were perhaps a hundred of the meter-tall beings, including females and young, with heavily armed males brandishing weapons. An unfortunate initial encounter with some town “toughs” led to injuries on both sides, and communication barriers made matters worse. By the time Mariala arrived, with Vulk, Erol, Toran and Korwin in tow, it looked to be quickly sliding towards mutual massacre.

Fortunately, no one had actually been killed yet, and after several hours of arcane communication techniques, tense negotiation and some calming psychic broadcasts, bolstered by her authority as a mage of the respected local chantry, Mariala was able to bring the affair to a peaceful conclusion. It seemed the amphibious K’hela Pah had been driven from their homes by the disruptions of the recent eruption, when underwater fissures had started venting lethal gases and even boiling the water in some areas. Some blamed the humans, of whom they knew little, others said the humans could make it stop. They had actually been seeking the chantry, when they came ashore.

Once both sides reluctantly agreed that the other meant no harm, the humans promised to help the lake people relocated, and the K’hela Pah offered to help direct the town’s fishing boats to better shoals.

“This may be the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” Vulk whispered to Mariala as they returned to the chantry. “Good job! You ever think  of becoming a herald?”

♦ ♦ ♦

The next day, Magister Vetaris finally answered, and it was short and to the point:

Chaos! Farlox III murdered, Korön cult coup Darikaz. Attempt on Dorikon IV failed. War likely. Meet me in Shalara, 24 Margas.

When this shocking, if all too brief, news was relayed to the others, it was quickly agreed that they should have as many options open as possible; Mariala sent a message to Captain Levtor, directing him to wrap up his current trading activities and bring Fortune’s Favor to Shalara as soon as possible.

Vulk, of course, was deeply worried about his family and friends in Virzon and the boarder lands near Darikaz… if war came, they would be on the front lines. There was nothing he alone could do, but perhaps the Star Council might have a strategy… he would at least meet with Vetaris before making any decisions.

Devrik, mostly recovered from his aural shock, aside from a low, persistent headache, remained anxious to return to Raven with their son, but was persuaded there was no quicker way to do so than via Shalara. From there he might charter a river boat that could take him much of the way up the Silver Eye, faster than he could ride. Mistress Hyslopa had been showing him how to feed his son when no wet nurse was available, so he felt there was no need to linger on Râgnol any longer.

The next day was Korwin’s 25th birthday, but much like Devrik’s 27th birthday of the previous month, lost to the time they were trapped in stasis, it was largely forgotten amid the preparations for departure. His friends did manage to lift a glass to his health over dinner that night, but they were all too tired, worried and fretful to do more.

The next day, as they were preparing to mount the horses they had purchased, at greatly inflated prices, news arrived that the northern tribesmen of the Savage Mountains were rumored to be in great turmoil, and moving south; that King Garinalt had called up the levies of the northern marches in preparation for possible incursions; and most surprising of all, the King had finally named an heir! Ser Maldan Harabor, Sheriff of Daretshire, oldest bastard son of the elderly king, had at last been legally recognized and named as the Heir. The question on everyone’s mind was, how would all the other potential heirs take it? Would it lead to stability, or more chaos, infighting and backstabbing?

♦ ♦ ♦

“Stability, on the whole, I think,” Magister Vetaris said when the question was posed to him at their meeting, seven days later. The trip from Ragnol had been surprisingly uneventful, the people remarkably calm; there was concern, certainly, about the volcanic pall that still hung over much of the northern part of the land and the effect it would have on the year’s crops, just now being planted, but no panic. People seemed secure in their belief that their good king’s wisdom would see them through, especially now that he had at last named an heir.

“The threat from the northern barbarians is greater than most people know,” the old mage went on. “But that news has brought most of the other potential claimants to the throne into line – the last thing anyone wants is a fractured realm when the barbarians are at the gate. and there is no doubt that Ser Maladan – excuse me, Prince Maladan – is a capable and strong leader of men, and a canny fighter.

“While his father keeps the home front calm, I suspect the Prince will lead the armies in the north… an eventuality that our friends in the Vortex didn’t foresee, I believe.”

“You think the Vortex is behind these barbarian movements, then?” Vulk asked, setting down his wine glass. They had just finished a sumptuous meal in Vetaris’ suite at the finest inn in Shalara, and were finally getting down to business.

“Without a doubt,” Vetaris nodded. “Especially given the story you’ve just told me of the ritual you interrupted. And it’s more than just barbarian tribes on the move – Gülvini of every stripe are gathering throughout the northern mountains, and there are rumors of… other things, as well.

“The council believes that the eruption was to have been a signal to the Vortex forces scattered across the North. In fact, I suspect there was to have been four simultaneous eruptions along the Blackmist and Sarajis Mountains, given the number of magma elementals you describe. This would have spread panic much more widely, and have assured massive crop failures in at least six countries, leading to starvation and unrest.

“I believe the death of old King Garinalt was to be the event that triggered the eruptions, once the Vortex had summoned and positioned their elementals within the chosen volcanoes. Whether they intended to wait on his natural death, or hasten it along at the right moment, I don’t know. But combined with the assassinations of the kings of Arushal and Darikaz immediately after, the entire region would be in chaos.

“But thanks to you, or perhaps we should give credit to poor, foolish Kirdik Hanol, the signal was only partial and too early. King Farlox was assassinated, true, and the Order of the Red Hand has seized control of the capitol and much of the heartland of Darikaz, but attempts to assassinate the Earls of Gormilioth and Therund failed. So the country is effectively in  a state of civil war, where they had no doubt expected to be on the march into Arushal by now.

“More importantly, from our point of view, the Zelistian assassins sent to kill King Doirikon were less prepared than they might have been, and they failed. They died on the rack, in terrible pain, but nothing of import was got from them… hardly a surprise, of course. The Shadows of Zelist live up to their fearsome reputation. Well, almost,” he added, smiling.

“With Arushal and Nolkior stable, if shaken, it would sem that the Vortex’s plans are in disarray. Yet it is still possible for them to achieve – something. If we only knew what their ultimate objectives were, we’d be in a better position to gauge what may come next… if it’s mere territorial aggrandizement, then they may well push ahead, willing to seize what they can, if not all of what they want. But if there is some deeper game here…”

“How can we help?” Vulk asked. “Perhaps in the west, we could–”

“No, Ser Vulk,” the old man shook his head tiredly. “I understand your desire to be where you might help your family. But they are in no danger just yet, or at least not more than they have been the last 10 years.

“It is here, or rather in the north of Nolkior, that the Council feels you can be of the most use. For now, I would ask that you return to Dor Dür, or even Dürkon, and keep your ears to the ground. I fear war is coming from the north soon; sooner than it will from Darikaz in the west, in any case. You have connections with the Earls of Kinen and Urkonis, as well as the Constable of Dür and the Prince of Dürkon. My gut tells me you have some role to play here. I promise you, the Council will not abandon you, nor forget your own concerns.”

There were several more hours of talk, going over every detail of what was known of the chaotic events across the North, and in the end even Vulk agreed, reluctantly, to remain on alert in northern Nolkior. With portal travel still almost impossible, the gray-haired mage gratefully accepted the Hand’s offer of the use of the Fortune’s Favor to carry him back to Arushal and his business there… with the threat of war looming, he had been asked by the king to take a formal place as one of his advisors. As this suited the Star Council perfectly, he had of course accepted.

“Piracy seems to be on the rise these days, on top of everything else,” he said as he bid them farewell. “But I’m certain that, between the skill of Captain Levtor and his crew, and my own modest abilities, we shall fare just fine.”

♦ ♦ ♦

The next day the group again took to the road, or rather the river, hiring a boat to carry them and the horses to the navigable head of the Silvari River, and the city of Tendus. From there it was a three day ride to Dor Dür, and at midday on 29 Margas the Hand of Fortune returned to where they had started, 18 days earlier. The reunion of mother and child (and wife and husband) was everything the friends had hoped for. Raven was long recovered from the hemorrhage caused by the false midwife (the body of the true midwife had been found several days after the group had left in hot pursuit), and Devrik’s fears about her reaction to another woman feeding her child proved unfounded.

“You civilized people worry about such stupid things,” was all she said when he mentioned it, as she rocked her son to sleep.

It wasn’t until 16 days later, during the mid-month celebration of Saridás, that she and Devrik fianlly revealed the name of their son. Vulk publicly announced the name the next day when he baptized the babe during the celebration of the Kasiran Festival of Luck. His true name, however, as was the custom of her people, would only be discovered by the boy himself, when he became a man at age 16.

After the three day celebration of the spring equinox was over, Erol decided to set out for the Republic.

“It’s past time I let my family know that I’m alive,” he explained, “and to set things right with my father. Vetaris knew little of what is going on in the Republic, yet rumor has the Senate more deadlocked than ever, and there have been riots… I’ll learn what I can of the Vortex’s activities there.”

Toran decided to ride out with him as far as Dürkon, having been summoned by Lekorm Darkeye to give Prince Rhoghûn a full accounting of recent events. He promised to return as soon as possible.

In the days that followed, a strange kind of quiet settled over the group, and apparently over the world. No word of attacks from the northern barbarians came, no ravening packs of Gülvini stalked the countryside, and life seemed to go on as ever. Study, practice, conversation, and playing with the baby filled their days. Vulk travelled north to Vinkara for a tenday, to study with certain cantors there, and reported the gradual gathering of a great army there, but no other sign of trouble.

Until 28 Sarnia, Mariala’s 25th birthday, when news came to them that a great battle had been fought at Noneth Bridge, led by Prince Maldan and the Earl of Kinen. A great horde of Ethmoniri tribesmen had been routed and turned back at the frontier, with minimal loss of life on the Nolkiori side. The birthday party, already in full swing, turned into a spontaneous victory celebration.

But afterward, the Hand learned that not all was as joyful as it seemed. Ser Alalkor called them to his study later that evening, to reveal that while the barbarians had indeed been routed, the army had been suffering a strange attrition. Scores of men, most from the rear echelons, had been disappearing for days before the battle. At first it was assumed to be simple desertion, but as the numbers grew to include men of unquestionable loyalty, and even a few officers, some darker force was believed to be at work. And it seemed to center on the Kotaran Marsh…

After several scouts disappeared, the Earl of Kinen suggested that they needed specialists, and had assured the Prince that he knew just the group for the job…

After seeing the scared and injured boy back to his family, and wrapping up the messy details of the insane oat peddler’s crimes with the local officials, the Hand of Fortune continued on their way back to Dürkon the next morning. It was a blessedly uneventful trip, and the pace was slow to allow the injured an easier time of it. Despite Vulk’s healing touch and rituals, and Drake’s miraculous Baylorium, none of the injured were quite up for much exertion  just yet…

The tenday after their return to the Dwarven city-state was a quiet, restful time, devoted to recovery, study and contemplation. On the 10th of Novara Devrik returned from his extended stay with his new wife, who insisted it was bad enough her being cooped up inside in these final months of her pregnancy, but he was driving her to distraction with his own cabin fever.

“She told me to go find our friends and maybe some adventure, get it out of my system, for a time anyway, so I’d be of some use to her after the infant arrives,” he told his friends over dinner that night. “I’m not quite sure what she means by that last…”

“Sadly, it doesn’t look like we have much to offer in the way of adventure just now,” Vulk sighed. “We seem to be at a dead end in tracking down the Vortex, and if Master Vetaris and the Council have had better luck, they’ve not told us.”

“We’ve been batting around ideas for drawing them out,” Mariala said. “Korwin has certainly come up with some… interesting ideas…” she added, innocently sipping her wine.

“Hmmm, I’ve been thinking about that myself,” Devrik nodded seriously, before the water mage could follow up his suspicious squint at Mariala with a retort. “Perhaps we should seek out the help of the Mad G– um, that is, of the Immortal Kalos… he aided us once against these foes, and seemed much angered at their using his temple and corrupting his priests. With a god on our side…”

“I don’t think that’s a very safe idea,” Vulk said hastily. “Kalos is not the most… reliable… of deities. And while it’s true that he did aid us, I’m quite certain it was because he saw us as tools to be used to achieve his own ends. I doubt he’d look favorably on our trying to use him as a tool to achieve our own ends. Gods are funny that way.”

This led to a lively debate that went on long into the night, but resulted in no clearer idea of how they should proceed. The most likely course seemed to involve the cover Devrik had created at Nah-henu, of Kalovai hunters for the Taruthani Games, but beyond that no one could agree on how to use that to track the Vortex buyers. Then fate stepped in and brought a new thread into their hands.

The very next morning a messenger arrived at the groups suite of rooms with a summons from Lekorm Darkeye, commander of the Prince’s elite bodyguards/intelligence force. When they had gathered in his spacious office he tossed a sheaf of papers onto his desk.

“This came in yesterday, from one of my agents in Fort Lakona, the Republic’s major settlement along our southwestern border,” he explained as Vulk reached for them. “It seems our friends in the Vortex have not given up on buying Khundari arms after all.

“Those papers are orders for more swords, spears and armor, which is not in itself an issue… the problem comes from the secret document my agent procured, which indicates the sale of forbidden cross-bows. The vendor is a small craftsman located in Khorakas, an outpost on our western border… not up to the standards of the City, perhaps, but quite good enough compared to most Umantari work.”

He gestured a perfunctory apology at his guests frowns. “No offense, of course. But what is most interesting here is the name of the person to whom these illegal arms are to be delivered, in four day’s time… it’s there, near the bottom of the third page.”

Vulk’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and Mariala gasped as she read over his shoulder. At the other’s inquiring looks he handed the pages over to Devrik. The warrior-mage stiffened as he read the name, and his face set into an expressionless mask. “I see,” was all he said.

“Well, who is it?” Korwin demanded when nothing further was forthcoming.

“The name of the supposed agent,” Vulk reluctantly replied, “is Brandis Nordaka. Devrik’s father.”

There was a moment of consternation as everyone considered what this might mean – Devrik’s father was a knight of the Republic, a major landholder, and a not insignificant player in his nation’s politics. If he was in league with the Vortex, who else might have been suborned, and in what other realms? How deep did the organization have its tentacles into the power structure in Kildora, or elsewhere. And how did Devrik feel about all of this?

He was giving no clue at the moment, and remained silent as the questions flew around him. When the others had all agreed that they needed to travel to Khorakas to intercept the agent, whomever it might be, he stood up abruptly.

“I do not particularly like my father, but I find it hard to believe that he would willingly support an organization like the Vortex, one that seems bent on control, perhaps conquest… he has always been a supporter of the Consolidation and Reform factions in the Senate, and this seems to violate that philosophy.

“But there’s only one way to learn the truth and that is from my father himself. My wife gives birth in a month – I wish to get this over with as quickly as possible. I must compose a letter for Raven; I leave the planning to you.” With that he turned and left the room.

Before any of his friends could go after him Lekorm called them back to the matter at hand.

“It would be almost impossible to make it to Khorakas before the scheduled delivery date at this time of year, if you were to take the surface road. Even with the mild weather this year, at least two of the passes between here and there are still snow-bound.

“However, if you take the Western Deepway, you should make it with half a day to prepare.”

Toran raised an eyebrow at this, and glanced at his companions, who merely looked blank.

“No need to look so shocked, young Toran,” Lekorm said, with a slight smile. “The Deepways are not really a secret, after all, however much we generally don’t talk of them to outsiders in these latter days. But any scholar or historian worth his salt knows of them, and after all your companions are now D’har Koem – I’m sure they will be discreet.

“The Deepways are a series of underground highways that connect most of the Khundari realms, or at least they did at one time. They were built over many centuries, beginning in the Age of Chaos, and allowed us to move our armies great distances at speed. But with the fall of so many of the Great Realms much of the system lies now in ruins or infested with gülvini, or worse.

“However, the minor highway we today call the Western Deepway is still relatively intact, if seldom used. The hostels that once offered comfort to travelers are abandoned, true, but our patrols keep the way clear of undesirables… mostly. It connects the City with Khorakas, of course, and with the Dwarven realms of the Greatstone Mountains in the far west.

“Toran will have the authority to deal with our renegade weapon smith, and I will send along two men-at-arms. Dealing with the other end of the matter… that I leave in your hands my friends. All we ask is that you keep us informed of what you learn of our mutual enemy.”

After a few more minutes of discussing the details, the meeting broke up and the Hand went off to prepare to once again leave the City…

The Hand of Fortune was met with great excitement by Prince Rhoghûn when they returned to the City bearing the Axe of Arghün. The announcement and official presentation of the recovered great artifact was made to the assembled nobles of the city-state five days later, during a massive state dinner. The Umantari adventurers were presented as heroes of great daring and immense cultural sensitivity for having not only recovered the long-lost artifact, but handing it over to its rightful owner without thought of keeping for themselves. The exact details of how they came to find the weapon were glossed over, of course… At the end of the meal the Prince named the five humans as D’har Koem, friends and true allies of the Khundari people.

The general public opinion of the humans rose sharply in the wake of this announcement, and social invitations began pouring in from the various clans and guilds of the city. Even the old battle-axe Dhama Jhertin was forced to reign in her hostility to Mariala in the face of this swell of public approval. Mariala didn’t for a moment take this as a true change in the old woman’s feelings about outlander tarts teaching the beloved royal princess , but appreciated the respite from constant backbiting nonetheless.

The day after the public presentation was Toran’s 33rd birthday, and his new companions were invited to join his family in celebration. The party was especially epic as it also celebrated his receiving a Medal of Merit from the Prince for his own part in recovering the Axe of Arghün and his actions during Arlun Parek’s late machinations. The next two days were spent recovering.

The tenday that followed was a relatively quiet one, as the group continued about the usual duties and pursuits – studying, teaching and training. Mariala and Vulk divided their time between tutoring the royal children and pursuing their own arcane or religious studies, while Korwin delved seriously into his own magical studies and engineering plans for various gadgets and support materials (especially ones that might turn a profit). Erol and Devrik spend a great deal of time training with Toran and the other Shadow Guards, as well as giving combat training to both Cris and Jeb. Jeb in turn strove to help Erol improve his archery skills, though it seemed slow going sometimes. Devrik made a trip to Dor Dür to visit Raven, and when he returned he took Vulk aside.

“I have a favor to ask, my friend,” he said, rather solemnly Vulk thought, when they were alone. “Although Raven and I are bonded in the eyes of her people, we are not truly wed by the laws of civilized lands, or of the Church. We’ve discussed it much in recent months, and I would like to make her my wife in law as well as in custom, before our child is born. Raven has agreed, and we would both be honored if you would perform the ceremony for us.”

This was one of the longer speeches Vulk had ever heard his comrade make, and he was touched at the request.

“Of course, my friend,” he replied, grinning. “The honor would be all mine! When did you want to do this? The last time I saw Raven… well, I’m guessing there’s not too much time left before –”

“Two months, she figures,” Devrik interrupted, suddenly seeming a little embarrassed. ” I assume women know more of these things than we do. Anyway, I thought Kristala Va would be good… it’s supposed to be an auspicious day for this sort of thing…”

“Indeed it is, and so it will be,” Vulk laughed, slapping his friend on the back. He surreptitiously winced and shook his numbed hand as they settled down to work out the details.

♦ ♦ ♦

And so it came to pass that the entire Hand of Fortune, including their servants and animals, rode out from the gates of Dürkon on the morning of 27 Glacia. The weather so far that winter had been unusually mild, with far more rain than snow, and the roads were a morass of mud and standing water once beyond the well=paved highway of the dwarven city-state. But they had no rain during the actual journey, and the group arrived safely beneath the walls of Dor Dür in the late afternoon of the 28th.

Constable Ser Alakor and his brother Draik, Raven and her brother Black Hawk, and several other friends and allies were on hand to greet them. A welcoming dinner gave everyone a chance to reconnect before the serious planning for the wedding began. The next several days were spent in gleeful preparation, as their friends quickly took over the whole affair from the slightly dazed Devrik and Raven. Mariala took the younger woman, inexperienced in the ways of civilized traditions and ceremonies, under her wing and to the town’s best seamstress. Korwin spent a considerable amount of time working on some sort of surprise, while Vulk and Draik oversaw the preparation for the wedding feast. Erol and Toran mainly kept Devrik and Black Hawk out of the way by sitting and drinking with him or otherwise occupying his mind.

At sunset on Kristala Va Devrik Askalan and Raven of the Golana Rethmani were wed by their friend Vulk Elida, Cantor of Kasira in the Temple of Dür before their closest friends (and several score of other castle and town folk). As the ceremony began a murmur ran through the crowd when it was seen that snow had begun falling outside. By the time the ceremony was over, and Vulk had named the couple man and wife, several inches of snow had covered the town and the lands around for perhaps half a mile. Korwin looked inordiantely pleased with himself as the wedding party made its way through the beautiful, muffled winter dreamscape to the Great Hall of the keep and the wedding feast.

The party continued long into the night, long after the new couple had retired to their rooms, celebrating both the wedding and the arrival of a new year. It was generally considered the best time anyone had had in Dür in a very long time. If the ghost of Ser Alkakor’s evil predecessor haunted the keep that night, no one noticed. When the sun rose the next morning very few were awake to see it, and the snow had vanished as if it had been a dream. Devrik and Raven spent the day in their rooms, which few of their friends noted since most of them were abed themselves until at least afternoon…

On the morning of 3 Novara the Hand prepared to return to Dürkon, minus Devrik, who planned to spend at least the next tenday with his new bride. At breakfast Ser Alakor drew Vulk and Mariala aside and asked them for a small favor. It seems that a messenger had arrived the night before from one of his outlying manors, the village of Kadail, with news of a missing youth. It was unclear if the lad was a run-away serf or the victim of an accident or foul play. In any case, before he raised the hue and cry for a runaway, Alakor wished to eliminate the other possibilities.

“It is only a very little bit out of the way of your return journey,” he explained to his two friends. “I would consider it a great favor if you could stop on your way and see what you can do… find the missing boy if you can, or determine if he’s a runaway. I’ll send one of my pages along, you can send him back with your report before you continue on to Dürkon…”

In the days following their report to Prince Rhogûn on the ancient, but still dangerous, Gauntlet of Gheas, things once again settled into a routine for the Hand of Fortune. As the Royal Corps of Engineers worked to more permanently seal off the long-forgotten area, Mariala and Vulk returned to tutoring the Prince’s children and their own studies and meditations, Korwin buried himself in developing an interesting new spell he had conceived of during a tavern brawl, while Devrik divided his time between sparring and training with Erol and their Shadow Warrior friends and learning the new spells that he had discovered amongst Arlun Parek’s burned papers.

The suite of rooms the hand had been given by their royal sponsor was large and comfortable, and was ably overseen by Cris and Jeb. Cris had turned out to be not only an excellent squire when needed, but a surprisingly good major domo as well. Jeb, a country farm boy, was less skilled at domestic service, but he was a quick learner and anxious to please. The fact that both young men received arms training from Devrik and Erol perhaps helped to keep them contented, as did the respect Erol paid Jeb when taking longbow lessons from him.

It was during this settling into routine, after months of relative chaos and adventure, that gave Erol time to think about his family. Seeing Draik happily reunited with his brother, so long thought dead, had made him realize that, whatever the anger his father and he had shared over their differing political views, it was past time to let it go. His family certainly thought him long dead, but in the months after his escape from the Taruthani Games he had not really had the time or means to address that… now he had no such excuses.

This realization crystalized for him when the Hand began discussing how best to follow-up on the weapons that the Vortex had been illegally buying from the Khundari. The Republic had been the destination of at least some of those shipments (many others, they had learned from Greatcoffer’s secret records, had gone to other realms, especially the Kingdom of Nolkior). When Devrik had suggested he could lead a quiet mission to Delfarin to investigate, being a native, Erol had jumped at the chance to volunteer as well.

“It’s my homeland as well,” he said enthusiastically, somewhat startling his friends, used as they were to his phlegmatic, stoic demeanor outside of battle. “And it’s time I visited my family, and let them know I am alive and well,” he added, in answer to their looks.

It was soon decided that Devrik and Erol, with Cris and Jeb each acting as squire/batman, would use the nearest Nitaran Vortex, the Ilme Vortex on the edge of the Torvin Marsh, to gate to a known point just outside the Republic’s capital. They debated taking horses, but Devrik felt it would make them more conspicuous on a covert intelligence gathering mission – and if they needed to, they could buy steeds easily enough in the capital. The servants were less than thrilled to learn of this decision, since it meant they’d be humping most of the gear, but kept their comments to the occasional sigh as they packed.

On the morning of 11 Vento the small group bid goodbye to their friends and headed out into a cold, driving rain. It was 25 kilometers to the spot they had to leave the road, and another two kilometers to the vortex site… it was late afternoon before they finally arrived, cold and wet. Even Devrik had begun to regret not riding, and no one was inclined to camp overnight… while the rain had tapered around midday, it had returned as a steady downpour an hour earlier.

After a quick bite of cold sausage and cheese, Devrik began his preparations to summon the portal that would soon lead them to some warmth and comfort. “How far is this roadhouse supposed to be, once we’re on the other side?” asked Erol, pulling his cloak about him tighter and stamping his feet.

“No more than two turns of the glass, I’m told,” his friend responded distractedly. “Now quite, I need to concentrate on this bit…”

A moment later he gave a satisfied sigh, and gestured the others to follow. He stepped forward, into the shimmer in the air that was visible only to him, and vanished. Cris and Jeb were close on his heals, with Erol bringing up the rear. He stepped through –

– and stumbled to a halt as he was hit by a wall of hot, humid air and blinded by intense… sunlight, he realized, shielding his eyes as they slowly adjusted. He felt the familiar “twang” behind the eyes as time seemed to slow down and his perceptions to expand…

His companions stood nearby, faces also scrunched up against the light, hands raised to shield their own eyes. They were on a rocky outcropping that rose from a small clearing of dense green vegetation, like nothing any of them had ever seen. The sun burned hot and bright, almost directly overhead, in a cloudless sky of deep blue. The distant sound of surf could be heard quite clearly over the cacophony of bird calls all around them. He caught flashes of brilliant color amongst the strange… trees?… that must be the birds themselves…

Devrik suddenly staggered and fell to knees, swaying drunkenly, and Cris reached out to keep him upright. Erol knelt in front of his friend and grasped him by the shoulders, peering into his face. “Where are we, Devrik? What’s happened? Are you alright?”

After a moment of dazed incomprehension, Devrik shook his head and his eyes seemed to clear. He leveraged himself to his feet with Erol’s help, and slowly looked around the clearing. “I have… no idea where we are… but clearly, we are not where we should be… Erol, did you “enhance” my casting…?”

“No,” Erol shook his head. “I didn’t think you needed it, and by now I know what it feels like, so I know I didn’t do it involuntarily.”

“Then I’m afraid it was my fault,” Devrik sighed heavily, rubbing his head to sooth the throbbing ache that was growing there. “I knew it was possible, Master Vetaris certainly warned me of it often enough… but we’ve been so successful, I just assumed…” He tapered off in frustrated silence.

“What?” Erol prompted. “Are we lost?”

“Well, yes and no… vortex traveling is not an exact science, not even a precise art… you need to already know the Gate you seek, through previous use, or learn the mental “template” for it. But even under the best conditions, it is entirely possible to miss your target. Which is what I seem to have done.’

His friends looked at one another worriedly at his unusual hesitation and uncertainty.

“I can certainly open this local vortex…” he gestured vaguely at the air around them, “But not soon, by choice, given how crappy I feel just now… that jump really… drained me… but I can open it, and try to get us back. Of course, not knowing exactly where we are… I’m not sure how easy that’s going to be…”

“But don’t you known the, um, the  pattern, or whatever, for the Gate we just left?” Cris asked. “Can’t you just, I don’t know, reverse the process?”

‘It’s… not that simple…” Devrik grimaced as he sat down on a nearby boulder, still rubbing his temples. “The pattern is really two parts… while the pattern for any gate is fixed, the pattern for the gate you’re coming from affects the final… equation… I’ll have to rest and study this vortex, try to learn its pattern…”

“We should probably let the others know what’s up,” Erol sighed, and he began to rummage through the pack that Cris had dropped as soon as he’d been able, looking for the slips of Mariala’s special paper. With a colorful curse he’d learned in the arena, he held up a sodden mass of parchment that instantly began to crumble around his fingers. It seemed there’s been a leak…

It was obvious that Devrik was in no shape to immediately try to open another portal, so Erol took charge and set Cris and Jeb to preparing a camp for the night. Once over the shock of the unexpected, the youths were not at all sad to be out of the cold and rain, and they set about setting things up with enthusiasm. While they were busy and Devrik was resting, Erol hefted his trident and headed towards the sound of surf, cautiously surveying his surroundings as he entered… is this what they call “jungle” he wondered.

A few minutes along what was probably a game trail brought him out of the lush green canopy and on to a beach, whose brilliant white sand contrasted beautifully with the multitude of blue-greens of the ocean that spread to the horizon and the deep blue bowl of the sky above. He stood stunned for several minutes before continuing his exploration…

♦ ♦ ♦

Having determined that they were on a small, and apparently unpopulated, island Erol allowed the boys to enjoy the beach after they’d all eaten, while Devrik slept and he himself kept a wary guard. There may not have been human life on this island, but there was clearly animal life, some quite large, by the signs.

But the rest of the long day passed uneventfully, and when the sun finally went down in spectacular colors, they were all ready for sleep. Devrik was feeling better by then, and volunteered for the first watch. He also used the time to contemplate the nitaran pattern of the local vortex…

The next morning, after a breakfast that included some strange, but delicious fruits none of them had ever heard of, plucked from nearby trees, he was ready to again open a Gate. “I’m aiming for the vortex near Dürkon, though,” he explained to his companions. “It’s too risky to try for a vortex I’ve never been to from one I’ve just encountered.”

No one was inclined to argue with him, and with some reluctance at leaving this lovely clime for a return to rain, sleet and cold wind, his little band prepared to follow him through the invisible doorway he summoned –

– and onto a grassy plain, under a gray sky of high clouds, that stretched from horizon to horizon. A cool wind, which seemed colder than it really was after the tropics, rippled the waist-high grass in the vast patterns of the invisible airs above them.

“Shit!” was all Devrik had to say.

♦ ♦ ♦

And so began an amazing, exhausting odyssey. Over the next several days Devrik lead his small party through Gate after Gate, and not always to locales as safe or as pleasant as the first two… and none of them home…

A forest of evergreens, heavy with snow, and crawling with Gülvini and wolves, neither of  which hesitated to attack these new interlopers…

The ruins of an ancient city, half buried in sand, under a velvet-black sky of blazing stars… in which something no longer alive, but malevolent and intelligent dwelt…

More ruins, covered in ropy vines as thick as a man’s thigh and shadowed by a vast canopy of trees, sunlight filtered into a green twilight, and through which swung strange, almost-human shapes…

A battlefield, where two armies of fierce, sallow-skinned, black-haired, slant-eyed men, mounted on horses armored in overlapping plates of lacquered metal, screamed in an unknown language and hacked at one another in bloody frenzy…

A blizzard of howling winds and blinding snow, so cold a metal blade might crack like glass…

A mountainside high above a dark evergreen forest, and a cave mouth which vented steam, welcome relief after the almost-fatal cold of the blizzard… until the immense reptilian head of an ancient red dragon emerged from the darkness, followed by its seemingly endless body and wings that blotted out the sun…

Finally, on the fourth day, exhausted, battered, frozen and burned, the group found themselves on a rocky islet rising, barely, from the inky black waters of a vast underground lake, or maybe sea… the cavernous ceiling so very far overhead was only visible by the faint glow of some phosphorescent fungi that limned its craggy surface.

“At least there doesn’t seem to be anything around to attack us,” Cris said, plunking a small pebble into the still, black water. As the sluggish ripples spread out Erol clipped him upside the head.

“Idiot! The Immortals alone know what’s lurking down there – and if anything is, now you’ve told it we’re here!”

But his fears seemed unfounded as the minutes ticked by and nothing rose from the depths to devour them. Gradually they all relaxed, and Devrik collapsed on the ground. “Got to sleep… can’t keep up… these multiple…” He was asleep before he could finish the thought.

They were all exhausted, and with no idea if it was day or night it was not long before they all began to drift off. Erol was the last… despite his determination to stay alert and on guard, his eyes eventually drifted shut and he slept deeply on that rocky shingle.

An indeterminable time later, Devrik woke with a start. He had no idea how long he’d slept, but his mind felt clear and refreshed for the first time in days… even if his body felt like he’d been ground between two millstones. He woke the others, they ate the last of their food, and he prepared to summon a Gate once more.

By this time they all expected some fantastic landscape, so it took a moment for them to realize that they recognized this spot. It was the glade in the woods near Dor Dür, and they were home!

It was a ragged but grateful party that collapsed in Ser Alakor’s solar a short time later. An anxious Raven plyed her husband with hot tea and food, while Draik did the same for the others, as they recounted their recent adventures.

It wasn’t until the next day, Erol’s birthday, that Devrik remembered they needed to contact the rest of the Hand, who would be beginning to miss them by now. Fortunately both Raven and Draik had some of Mariala’s special paper, and word was sent off at once…

♦ ♦ ♦

Back in Dürkon, life had gone on as usual after the departure of the Delfarin reconnaissance mission. The first hint that something was not right came the next day, when Mariala checked her collection of special papers, to see if any messages had come in. To her surprise, the papers linked to the ones she’d sent along with Devrik and Erol were a crumbled piles of ragged scraps.

“It’s as if the paper had been soaked,” she told Vulk when he arrived at her summons. “Though it’s as dry as a bone…”

“Does the paper mimic the state of it’s “twin” beyond just the ink?” Vulk asked curiously, examining the ruined parchments.

“I never thought to test it, honestly. Hmmm, let’s see…” She took a fresh sheet and sliced it in half, handing one piece to Vulk and carrying the other over to the fireplace. She tossed it in and watched as the paper blackened and curled.

“Hey!” Vulk yelped as the paper in his hand began to blacken and curl as well. He had expected to feel heat, but the  paper simply charred and then crumbled to gray ash without burning his fingers or giving off any heat at all.

“Fascinating!” Mariala murmured thoughtfully.

It was agreed, once they had informed Korwin and Toran of their experiment, that it was likely the expedition’s parchment had not been stored safely, and had been soaked in the previous day’s rains. There was no reason to believe there was any worse problem, so the matter was dropped, and they went back to their various tasks.

But by the 15th, they began to be concerned again. They had expected the team back the day before, and as the sun set with no sign of the travelers, the worried deepened. By the next day they had all agreed that they needed to follow their friend’s trail and find out what was going on. Vulk told Lekorm Darkeye of their intent as the others made preparations, and it was decided that they would take horses, including Devrik’s & Erol’s.

It was just as she was leaving her study to head to the Outer City and the stables that Mariala noticed writing on one of the parchments she had left with Raven, in Dor Dür. The others were greatly relieved when she told them the missing party was there, and they decided to head out to Dor Dür, since they were already set to travel.

In the brief space allowed by Mariala’s enspelled parchment it had not been made clear what the problem had been, so it was without any concern that Vulk opened the same Gate that Devrik had invoked, to shorten their trip to Dor Dür. Fortunately, nothing went amiss and they arrived to a happy reunion and a chance to belatedly celebrate Erol’s 24th birthday.

Everyone was fascinated by the travelers amazing tales of the places they’d seen and the adventures they’d survived, and it became a bit of a game trying to figure out where they had been. “I’m certain that the battle you saw must have been in Kwan Kar,” Korwin opined confidently. “I’ve read accounts of those Eastern lands, and the people there are described just as you saw.”

But that was the most confidence anyone had in their guesses, which didn’t stop them from making them for many tendays to come. Vulk also rather enjoyed ribbing his friend about his lack of facility with the Gate spell.

“Clearly, Kasira’s ritual for opening a Gate is much superior to the efforts of mere mages,” he kept pointing out, until Devrik began fingering his sword suggestively. And not in a good way.

But it wasn’t Devrik’s implied threats of violence that finally made the cantor regret his humorous barbs…

♦ ♦ ♦

On the 26th Vulk received a letter from his mother, almost two tendays old, telling him that his father was very ill. Over her husband’s objections, she was asking him to come home, in the hopes that his healing touch might help where the physicians had not.

Vulk wasted no time in throwing his kit together, dragooning Cris as his squire, and riding out for the Ilme Vortex that very day. Unfortunately, he didn’t arrive at a spot just a few miles north of Virzon. Instead, he and a tight-lipped Cris found themselves in a large stone chamber, surrounded by a number of Khundari cantors in brown and red robes.

“Oh, not again!” was all Cris said.

They soon learned that they were in the great Khundari city of Karac-Tor, capital of the great Dwarven kingdom known as the United Realms of Karac. Though annoyed at the interruption of their religious ceremony, they were not terribly surprised – it had happened before, the head priest explained, and would no doubt happen again.

A few hours of questioning by the High King’s security, and the travelers were escorted to another nitaran vortex just outside the city, where they were invited to depart. Cris was all for traveling overland, even after Vulk explained the distance involved, over mountain roads, with winter approaching. But in the end he followed the cantor through the next Gate –

– and was pleased when Vulk informed him that they were right where they should be, this time.

The visit to Virzon turned out to be more holiday than crisis – Vulk’s father was already well on the way back to good health, and his son’s ministrations were unneeded. But his presence was greatly appreciated, and their visit was marred only by the minor matter of the murder of a local spice merchant.

Forced to investigate to clear the name of a childhood friend, Vulk and his sidekick soon uncovered a conspiracy by a cabal of wealthy merchants to seize control of the city government. In less than a day they exposed the plot, saw the conspirators arrested, cleared the friend’s name, and were home in time for dinner.

Preparing to return to Dürkon on 2 Glacia, even Vulk was now a little reluctant to risk travel by Gate. But with winter in full swing, overland travel was uncertain and the dangers well known… In the end, they risked the nitaran vortex. But this time there was not hitch, and they arrived exactly where they had hoped to arrive.

Although they had not hoped for the snow that was falling as they made their way back to the City…

♦ ♦ ♦

Again, life returned to normal for the Hand… tutoring, researching, studying, and training. This comfortable pattern continued for almost a ten-day, before it was once more upset. On the afternoon of 10 Glacia the members of the Hand of Fortune were summoned to a meeting with Captain Darkeye and Prince Rhogûn – not in one of the usual audience chambers, offices or studies, but in one of the high dungeons. It seems a Gülvini had approached on of the City’s outposts, bearing the blue spruce branch of truce and an incredible story…

Returning from the dramatic pursuit, and apparent demise, of Arlun Parek, the Hand and their new friend Toran found the City in turmoil in the aftermath of the attempted assassination of the Imperial Ambassador, Grimbold. Confronted by hyper alert guards as they returned from the mine levels, it was Toran’s authority as a member, however junior, of the Shadow Guard that got the group into the presence of Captain Darkeye, and eventually the Prince himself.

They learned that news of Devrik’s discovery of how to free the mind-enslaved Shadow Warriors had arrived just in time to prevent a tragedy – thanks not least to the delay caused by several competing Healers arguing about how best to proceed. It was also discovered that a fourth Shadow Guard had been ensorcelled, but had suffered an allergic reaction to the plant – it was because he was unconscious in the the infirmary that Toran had been given his place at the ceremony, an honor unusual for a probationary member of the Guard.

Vorgev Greatcoffer had been apprehended trying to flee the City, his assets frozen, and his ships interred at the docks. Over the next several days he underwent extensive questioning, by both the Royal Inquisitors and, at Lekorm Darkeye’s urging, by Mariala and Vulk. In the end, all agreed that the man had been a dupe of the Vortex mage, and had no useful information on the organization itself. Indeed, he had believed the group was a resurgent branch of the long-suppressed Fhorgîn sect of the Cult of Gheas, who believed in Khundari superiority and was seeking to overthrow Prince Rhoghûn’s liberal policies of greater engagement with the outside world.

“His gullibility and ignorance in no way mitigates his treason, of course,” the Prince sighed heavily when the final report was presented to him and the Privy Council. “He must stand trial, and pay the price!”

Vulk, Mariala and Korwin were present at this high level meeting, as were Ambassador Grimbold and Magister Vetaris. The latter had arrived earlier that day, alerted of the recent events by Mariala, and had just come from his own questioning of their prisoners, which included the corrupted Kalosian priest from Na-henu, whom Korwin and Vulk had retrieved along with their servants and horses the day after the assassination attempt. Sadly, nothing new had been got from either.

“Indeed, Your Highness,” the Gray Mage nodded. “But I think it would be best if any mention of the Vortex could be left out of the public record. Why give this organization any hint of what we know… or, in truth, of how little we know!”

“I am not averse to this, Magister, and I appreciate your wise counsel, as always,” the Prince replied. “For myself, I would like even more to keep any mention of the thrice-damned Fhorgîn sect from the ears of my people – it took my great-grandfather years to finally suppress that heresy in the City, and I don’t need to give my enemies another rallying point should it rear its ugly head once again! But how can it be avoided? The man is too important, and too well known as being in opposition to my policies, for him to simply disappear…”

“Are we all here agreed that the man is guilty?” Vetaris asked, looking around the room and most especially at the members of the Prince’s Privy Council. A heartfelt murmur of agreement rose quickly from every voice, and heads nodded without hesitation. The evidence had been most complete, after all.

“Good! Then I believe I can offer a solution. It is within my power to set blocks in Vorgev’s mind, blocks which will prevent him from saying anything about those subjects we here wish to be kept secret. The facts need not be altered too much – just that he was the mastermind of the plot, and hired a renegade mage –”

“A Khundari mage!” one of the councilors interjected vehemently. “We don’t need anti-Umantari sentiments whipped up on top of everything else! Our commercial connections with the human kingdoms are fragile enough, and too important to our long range goals!” The others all muttered agreement, including the Prince.

“Yes,” Vetaris agreed. “That can be done – no one in the crowd in the audience chamber saw the man change when his illusion charm was torn away. So, Arlun Parek drops nicely out of the story. Vorgev conceived this plot alone, and carried it out with only the aid of his hired wizard and the guards they ensorcelled. My spells will ensure that he will be unable to say or do anything to contradict this story… and so, you may safely have a public trial.”

Fortunately, although Greatcoffer had revealed the names of several other like-minded, disaffected citizens, it was clear none had known anything of this particular plot – Arlun had apparently wanted no chance of leaks. So, while these other potential rebels would be watched more closely now, there would be no great purge, and no resultant civil turmoil. Vorgev Greatcoffer was not a particularly well-liked man, after all…

“There is one other favor I would ask of you Magister Vetaris, and of Dame Mariala,” Prince Rhogûn said, motioning them to stay after he had risen to dismiss the meeting. Their two companions also remained behind, as did Captain Darkeye after seeing the last of the councilors out.

“I would appreciate any effort you might make,” he continued, “in concert with my own people, both mundane, arcane and theological, to root out any other agents of this Vortex that might remain in my city. Is it possible to do this?”

“Well, it is impossible to prove a negative, Your Highness,” Vetaris answered with a slight smile. “But I know enough of this group now, and their arcane signature, to feel confident we can weed out any significant agents. More mundane spies, of course, I can’t speak to…”

“As long as I can be reasonably sure I don’t have magical rats roaming my halls,” the Prince laughed, “I will be content to leave the mundane rats to my trusted Captain and my Shadow Guard!”

Outside the council room the small group found Ambassador Grimbold waiting for them in the corridor.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” he said, tucking away the small dagger he’d been balancing on a callused fingertip, “I have one more meeting for you to attend today…”

♦ ♦ ♦

The meeting took place in the Ambassador’s suite of rooms, in a small, comfortable parlor that was just able to hold everyone involved… the principle members of the Hand of Fortune, Magister Vetaris, Toran Quickhand with an older, unknown Khundari and, of course, Grimbold himself.

“You’re probably wondering why I’ve called you all here this evening,” he began with a smile. Magister Vetaris gave an amused snort at this, but said nothing.

“Aside from wishing to again express my deep gratitude for your efforts in protecting my life, I also thought it time that all of us who act in the name of the Star Council should be made known to one another!” As he said this, he flipped open the cover on one of the many rings on his fingers, revealing the symbol of the Council and eliciting a tingling in the ring fingers of (almost) everyone else in the room.

After a moment of surprised silence from the Hand, and a nod from Magister Vetaris, most of the others in the room also revealed their sigils, including Toran and the older man beside him.

“By Kasira’s left tit,” muttered Devrik under his breath. “Does everyone work for this Council?”

Grimbold laughed out loud at this, and Magister Vetaris smiled, saying “No, my dear Devrik, although it sometimes seems like it, I know, to those of us who really do. In fact, witting agents of the Council are fairly rare… in all of Dürkon, for instance, there is only one.” He gestured to the older man sitting next to Toran.

“Well, two now, Magister,” the man said with a slight smile, rising and bowing to the group. “I initiated young Toran into the fold just this morning. He bears his own sigil ring now.” He sat bak down with a fond look at his son, who just looked embarrassed.

“Let me introduce you, my young friends, to the Royal Skald of Dürkon, Ghorek Silverharp,” Vetaris said. “I believe you already know his son, Toran Quickhand.”

After expressions of surprise and congratulations went around the room, Grimbold came to the real purpose of the meeting.

“It has been decided by Prince Rhogûn that he should have his own eyes and ears involved in the search for this Vortex gang, and to that end he has ordered Captain Darkeye to assign young Toran here to detached duty… specifically, if you will have him, to your group… what do you call yourselves? Ah yes, the Hand of Fortune… I like it!” he added as an aside.

“And given the nature of your group,” Vetaris picked up the thread, “it was decided that Toran should be made an agent of the Council as well. This will make everything less complicated, assuming you agree to take him on, of course. Keeping secrets from one another is so–”

“What the Void are you all talking about,” Erol burst out suddenly, unable to contain himself any longer. “What is this ‘Star Council’ you keep mentioning? Who–”

“Yes, yes, Erol, I’m sorry,” soothed Vetaris, as the other members of the Hand looked embarrassed. “I’ve been meaning to put you in the know for awhile now, and that is, in fact, the other purpose of this meeting. Now you musn’t blame your friends, they were bound by strict oaths of secrecy… as will you be, if you accept my offer…”

Which he did, after several turns of the glass wherein all the secret events of the past year were fully explained to him at last. After taking his own oath, he received a ring, bearing the hidden sigil of the Star Council, from Grimbold himself.

“I asked this boon of my colleague,” he explained as he watched the young fighter examine the ring carefully. “I’ve felt a certain kinship to you, my friend, as I’ve gotten to know you these past few days. Though I can’t explain why – perhaps it’s that you remind me of myself at the same age…”

After the Hand agreed to take on Toran as a member, the meeting turned to matters of the Council and it’s mounting concern over the existence and actions of the mysterious Vortex organization. It was quite late when they finally broke up…

♦ ♦ ♦

It took only a day and a half to convince Magister Vetaris, the Arcane Masters, and the Khundari Ghean priesthood that the City was free of magically warded spies of the Vortex. A task made easier, the mage pointed out to Mariala over dinner the next evening, by the relatively small size and enclosed nature of the Khundari Inner City.

“The Outer City seems clear as well,” he continued. “But it is not absolutely certain, and it would be impossible to make even that much of an assurance for an Umantari city of similar size. It is the insular nature of Dürkon, and the arcane wards and engines built into it’s very bones, that make what we just did possible. I suspect it is also what will keep the Vortex from planting new agents easily in the furure, now that we know what to look for.”

“Perhaps,” Mariala frowned, sipping her wine thoughtfully. “Assuming they don’t change their methods and “signature,” as you put it. I’m afraid they know that we know about them now, and I can’t believe they’ll just continue on as before… the whole reason they’ve succeeded so far is that no one knew to look for them…”

“Oh, you’re right of course, my dear. It’s inevitable that the Vortex should take new precautions, and I don’t claim it will be easy to root them out… we still know so little of them, their size, the scope of their operations, their ultimate goal… but the most vital thing is, we do know they exist now, and that counts for much!

“But tell me, what did his Highness want with you after our latest meeting this evening? I confess I was surprised when he asked you to stay…”

“Oh, that,” Mariala blushed and set her goblet down. “It seems Prince Rhogûn is seeking outside tutors for his three children… and since we’ve now declared the City safe from the Vortex, he has asked the Hand to stay for the winter, and more specifically, for me to be one of the children’s tutors. I think he is especially anxious to have a female teacher, for his young daughter’s sake.”

“Hmmm,” Vetaris stroked his chin absently as he considered this. “I think using Dürkon as a base for awhile is a good idea… the Vortex is certainly hot to eliminate you all, at this point, so staying where they can’t get at you is excellent strategy. But do be aware that there are segments of this society that fear the changes the Prince is making, and the education of the Royal Children by non-Khundari is a flashpoint for many of those fears.”

“I’m aware of it, of course… the Prince made no secret of the fact that I might face some hostility from some of the more, um, ossified nobility.” Mariala smiled. “But I’ve always been fascinated by Khundari culture, and I think the chance to experience it so very first hand, not to mention influencing its future through the children, is an opportunity I can’t refuse.

“And besides, it will help me improve my rather stilted Khundaic!”

“Well, as always, you seem to be proceeding with your eyes open, and your mind as well – so good luck!” He rose from his chair and bowed over her hand. “But now it is time for me to retire. I will be leaving first thing in the morning… there is much to be done yet this winter in pursuit of the Vortex, and I have several things to set in motion.

“I will contact you as soon as I’ve learned anything, and I assume you’ll do the same, should any of you decide to stir outside these walls before spring…”

Mariala stood and gave her mentor a hug, surprising a laugh from the older man. “I’m sorry you have to leave so soon… take care yourself, out there, for I have a feeling the Vortex isn’t looking for us only… And though we may stay here through the winter, I know Devrik, at least, won’t be bound inside; not with Raven expecting his child!”

♦ ♦ ♦

Indeed, it was the very next day, only a few hours after Magister Vetaris had departed the City himself, that Devrik set out for Dor Dür and his pregnant wife. He was accompanied by Vulk, who was anxious to see his Shield Brother Draik and fill him in on the latest news, and by Cris and Rob. Erol continued the daily training regimen he and Devrik had begun with the Shadow Warriors, while Mariala began preparing for her role as tutor the the Royal Children.

Korwin, meanwhile, sought out a Khundari craftsman recommended to him by Toran’s father in an effort to bring to reality his designs for a new lantern, utilizing the ancient Khundari glowstones he had taken from the Tomb of the Lost Prince beneath Dor Dür. Fehandor Bronzebender was a man of middle years for a dwarf, which meant he was probably approaching his 150th birthday, and gray was begining to pepper his dark beard. Originally a bit cool to his Umantari visitor, despite his rarified introduction from Ghorek Silverharp, he quickly warmed to him once he was shown the plans Korwin had drawn up.

“Extremely interesting, my lord,” he said after listening to the water mage’s ideas for a multi-chambered lantern that would encase the glowstones in a clear oil, to stop their fire, then drain it away again, exposing them to air, when light was wanted.

“A most well-thought out concept… the only suggestion I would make is to replace the oil with water. Yes, yes, I know the stones burn as bright in water as in air – both elements contain the same ether by which the stones are activated. Indeed, I have heard it said that the Khundari lords of old had much trade of these stones with the Tritani, and other peoples of the sea… although we, at least, no longer seek such commerce…

“But you see, if you fill the lantern with the uhrkwan-toh, what the miners call the Bad Air, the stones will not burn; then release the water from the upper chamber, and the stones give off their light. When you wish to extinguish the light,  drain the water to the lower chamber… if we make the lantern symmetrical, top to bottom, you simply turn it over so the water chamber is again at the top…”

Korwin was taken with this idea immediately, and the two fell to discussing details of materials and cost. Once the technical matters were fixed, Fehandor said he could make the device the mage wanted for 25 gold crowns, at which Korwin called loudly on Tyvos of the Deep to keep him from the sharks that swam on the land and claimed 5 gold crowns would be robbery, yet he might consider paying it. The Khundari master craftsman then threw up his arms in disgust and called on Gheas to give him back the time he had wasted on this “browser,” although it was possible he might condescend to consider 20 gold crowns, out of pity for the fellow’s obviously waterlogged brain…

In the end, they agreed on a price of 15 gold crowns, and that it should be ready eight days hence, on 29 Turniki. The two men shook hands and parted company quite satisfied that they had each got the better end of the deal…

♦ ♦ ♦

The next day messengers were sent out by Prince Rhogûn to other Khundari realms, with warnings of the threat posed by this mysterious new organization; to the High King of Karac in the south, to the Prince of Yarchür in the Greatstone Mountains in the west, and to the scattered Clan Holdings of Themuria and Varisea in the far north. Ambassador Grimbold dispatched his own messengers to bring the news to Lord Kavyn and Emperor Gil-Garon in Avantir.

With that task taken care of, life in Dürkon began to return to normal, and the members of the Hand of Fortune began to fall into their new routine. This consisted of weapons training with those of the Shadow Guard with whom they had forged friendships, and who were willing to teach what was permitted by their Order; learning basic Khundaic for those who didn’t already know the language, with advanced training for Mariala; study and research by those with arcane or mystical powers; and occasional forays outside the City for hunting or hawking, with the Prince and his courtiers, or reconnaissance on their own, seeking signs of Vortex activity.

During this time Mariala took up her tutoring of the Royal Children, spending four hours every other day teaching them Yashparic, history and natural science. Vulk was soon convinced to take on an hour himself, teaching comparative religion. Their charges were generally good students, eager for news of the world outside their narrow home, and Mariala grew especially fond of Lady Nharsia, the 12-year-old daughter of Prince Rhoghûn. Vulk seemed to forge a bond of humor with the boys, especially the eldest, 18-year-old Lord Vorgânt, who particularly loved practical jokes.

The boy’s Khundari tutor treated them both courteously enough, if not with any great enthusiasm, but it was Nharisa’s nanny, a frightful old battleaxe of the most conservative stripe, who gave them, especially Mariala, the most trouble. Although there was little that Dhama Jhertin could openly do, in the face of the Prince’s clear support, the harridan missed no chance to nip at her heels – cutting comments in public, “helpful” corrections of her Khundaic in front of the children, and subtle sabotage of her teaching plans. All of which only served to make Nharisa even more attached to her wonderful Umantari tutor…

Devrik and Vulk’s tenday-long excursion to Dor Dür had been a somewhat mixed bag, as they had explained to their friends  over dinner the night they returned to Dürkon on the last day of the month. It seemed that Devrik was determined that Raven should return to the Khundari city with him, to finish out the last few months of her pregnancy under the aegis of its greater security.

“She threw crockery at my head,” he grumbled morosely into his wine cup. “Again! She said it was bad enough being locked away within the stone walls of Dor Dür, but at least there she could see the sky and even take the air when she wished. She claimed she would wither and die underground for so long! I tried to explain that it wasn’t like that, that she could still walk outside, but it was useless, she was adamant. And her brother was no help… if anything, he was worse, for he had been able to spend much more time outside the walls, and balked even more strongly at the idea…”

In the end, they had agreed to disagree – she understood that he needed to stay close to the group as long as the Vortex threatened them all, and he accepted that she really couldn’t thrive in the underground city. He promised to visit as regularly as possible, it was a short enough journey, two days if one rode diligently and didn’t linger on the road. And she had the magic paper with which to contact him in an emergency… he checked every hour, it seemed… but she should be safe enough under the guard and vigilance of his old captain…

Vulk’s visit had been predicated on a certain agenda as well, an agenda that met with no more success than Devrik’s had. He had been a little more subtle about it, spending the first day or two of his visit with Draik regaling his Shield Brother with tales of the adventures the Hand had been having, with a certain stress on how little danger they’d faced. Eventually he segued into how much easier they might have been to resolve if only they had had Draik’s expertise. At which point his friend had made it very clear, albeit without flying crockery, that he simply wasn’t interested.

“He’s having the time of his life, it seems,” Vulk sighed in resignation, draining his own cup and thumping it down on the table with a shake of his head. “His researches are apparently going very well, and he’s made real progress on practical uses for Baylorium… in fact, he sent me back with several vials of his latest batch, which he claims does wonders for cuts and abrasions as well as blood loss.

“The business side of things is also going well, and I can’t deny that he seems very happy being able to spend so much time with his brother… but I really thought he’d be bored stiff by this time, and ready to come back to the group.”

But despite the failure of their primary purposes, both men admitted that the visit had been a good one, once they got past the arguments. After appropriately sympathetic nosies, the rest of the group filled the travelers in on what they had missed, especially the packed public trial of Vorgev Greatcoffer, now four days past.

The Hand had been given seats in a hidden gallery, having been asked not to attend the public trial, the Prince’s desire to keep this a strictly Khundari affair extending even to the witnesses. The sole exception had been Mariala, who attended in her capacity of Royal Tutor; but her presence had actually been required to ensure that Vorgev would remain unable to speak of those things the Prince and the Privy Council wanted kept secret. Should Magister Vetaris’ blocks begin to fail for some reason, she would be there to shore them up, or in the last resort, bring the prisoner down in flaming agony.

In the event, she had been unneeded, the blocking spells held, and the trial had gone on as scripted. The evidence was overwhelming, and as most of the nobility and merchant classes had been present at the actual event, there was no murmuring when the jury of eight good men and true found Greatcoffer guilty, and only an excited hum when they recommended to the Prince that the sentence be execution.

That had been the one uncertain point of the whole affair, from the point of view of the Crown – it was possible the jury could have recommended exile, given that the treason hadn’t actually been directed at the person of the Prince. And while Rhogûn was under no legal obligation to take the jury’s advice, if he had ignored a plea for banishment and sentenced the convict to death in despite, it might have lead to unrest and deeper discontent. So His Highness had been prepared to follow the jury’s lead, whatever it might be, and if necessary send out a squad of the Shadow Guard to make sure the traitor met an anonymous death in the mountains within a tenday.

But such exertions had not been needed, and Vorgev Greatcoffer’s head had been separated from his shoulders two nights later, under the dark of the Greater Moon, and his body tossed from the heights of Traitor’s Drop. At that time the Prince announced that the man’s property would not suffer attainder, despite his treason, and his heirs would be allowed to inherit. This relieved the last grumblings of all but the most diehard opponents of the Prince, and those individuals were smart enough to keep their thoughts to themselves.

Stories told and bellies full, the friends bid one another goodnight and retired to  their rooms, to get a good night’s sleep before tomorrows festivities.

The next day was 1 Vento, and the celebration of the Bounty of the Deeps, the holy day of Tyvos, God of the Seas. Korwin had spent the days after the trial pulling together a feast for the day with the fruits of the lake fishermen’s nets. He had then surprised his friends and acquaintances with an invitation to a beach party on the shore of the lake south of the Outer City. All had excepted, save only Prince Rhogûn… oh well, it had been a long shot anyway…

Despite a chill wind from the north the party was a great success. Devrik’s subtle enhancing of the fires in the warming braziers scattered around the great pavilion had kept them all comfortable, the food was excellent, and the wine and beer had flowed freely. Besides the Hand and their entourage, most of Toran’s family had attended, as had Lekorm Darkeye and several of the Shadow Warriors of the Prince’s Guard. A great time was had by all, and the hangovers the next day were spectacular!

It was several days later that the first great storm of autumn swept over the North, bringing heavy rains and high winds to the lowlands, snow to the high mountains, and gratitude to all those safe and snug within the great halls and chambers of the City…

“I don’t think we should waste this opportunity to question our friend here,” Korwin commented as they dragged the stunned and suddenly pale priest away from the entry and toward the central pillar of the Shrine. “Given how slippery these fellows have been so far, I fear any delay could lead to disaster… we have this space to ourselves, for whatever reason, and the power of the Ma– er, the Shaper – seems to have given us a break.”

“True,” agreed Vulk, “Even if we could get him past his fellow Kalosians, there’s no guarantee that this blessing would last beyond the walls of this Shrine, or beyond His lands…”

“If we set up behind this pillar,” Devrik offered, “we can’t be easily seen from the doorway, should anyone pass by, but should be aware of anyone entering.”

The others all agreed with this plan, and soon the faux priest of Kalos was bound hand and foot, his back to the massive central pillar and his face sickly looking in the soft amber light. He had regained his bearing by this time, and even as he was manhandled he adopted an air of remote indifference.

“You will get nothing from me, offspring of jackals,” he sneered when they all stood ranged around him, looking at him expectantly. But Vulk had not been idle while Devrik and Erol bound their prisoner. He now stepped forward, and raising his baton, he invoked the ritual of Abon’s Authority, certain that this time his invocation would be allowed to work.

“Those in whom you have placed your faith have abandoned you,” he stated in a tone that brooked no argument. The priest’s face went slack with shock and despair, but only for a moment; he quickly drew his resolve around himself, however tattered and bereft it suddenly seemed to him.

“N-no, I have not… not been abandoned… you have done this… but the Golden Man…”

“…cannot help you now,” Vulk interrupted coldly. “Your only hope lies with us. Tell us what we wish to know, and you may yet be saved!”

“No, I –”

“What is your name?” Vulk barked this question out suddenly, and before he could even think, the man had answered.

“Gerif Urnoketh!” He was sweating profusely now, and his face was a study in fear and desperation.

Mariala stepped forward and with every erg of mental energy she possessed she reached out with her mind and Commanded the confused man.

“What is the Vortex?”

Gerif’s face went suddenly slack, and he slumped back against the basalt and amber pillar, all resistance seemingly gone. He spoke in a quite monotone quite different from his previous sibilant hissing, almost conversationally.

“The Vortex is the cleansing power of Chaos, which will destroy the old and dying relics of the past, and usher in the new Order… It is everywhere, and it is unstoppable… Resistance is futile.”

“Who else is a member of the Vortex,” Korwin asked, leaning forward avidly, his eyes bright with curiosity. But the priest just looked at him, his face regaining a bit of its former tension, until Mariala repeated the question with her Commanding voice. Gerif’s gaze turned blank again as he began to speak.

“It is not for me to know more than is given to me… my charge is this shrine of the Mad God, and the monastery. I know only those whom I’ve recruited to the service of the Vortex, and the one who recruited me, Arlun Parek… and the Golden Man, of course… he who is the Vortex made flesh…”

A sudden babble of questions broke out at this point, and it took several minutes for Mariala to restore quiet and make it clear all the questions had to go through her. Eventually the group fell into the pattern of quietly asking Mariala a question and waiting for the mind-locked priest to answer after she had repeated it for him in The Voice. Vulk reinforced her commands with his ritual of Authority, and confirmed the answers with his truth sense, and slowly a picture emerged.

It became clear that they weren’t going to blow this thing wide open that night – the Vortex appeared to be a cellular organization, with each cell unaware of the members of other cells. Gerif Urnoketh was in charge of this single, apparently fairly remote and unregarded, cell. The only senior Vortexian he knew by name/sight was the one he reported to, Arlun Parek, who oversaw several cells in the region. Gerif knew nothing of the nature, location or even number of other cells.

He did once meet the leader of the organization, the one he called the Golden Man, when he received his second tattoo and was made a cell leader – but the man was swathed in rich robes of midnight blue, crimson and gold, no inch of flesh exposed, and his face hidden beneath a mask of solid gold, the eyes of which glowed white. He, if indeed a man it was, never spoke, but touched Gerif’s newly inked tattoo, imbuing it with his power and filling him with a sense of purpose and camaraderie.

As the leader of the Nah-henu cell Gerif had just six agents in his employ, and only two of those were aware of the existence of the Vortex; the other four believed that they were merely agents of an ambitious priest of Kalos. Of the latter, two were acolytes of Kalos at Nah-henu: Shemet Korvemin and Lesia Jegwar, both young, devout and ambitious, especially the girl. Another was Hergot Verokor, the Master of the Cellar and monk of the Monastery of the Ochre Hand… an ambitious man, willing to hitch his wagon to a rising star. All three believed Gerif to be maneuvering to become the next High Priest of the Nah-henu Shrine.

The fourth blind tool he employed was Joreth Vederzin, a boatman based in Vespina Abbey at the southern end of Lake Everbrite, who plies the waters of the lake from there to Dürkon, carrying cargo and passengers as circumstances allow, including pilgrims to the Shrine at Nah-henu. He was useful for keeping track of the movements of various people in the region. Gerif actually volunteered the information that he was certain that the man was also in the pay of several other spymasters with interests around the lake… “strictly a mercenary,” he concluded with a derisive sniff.

Of the two agents who were willing tools of the Vortex, one was an innkeeper in the castle town of Areson, Fendal Larket, master of the Broken Capstone Inn, well positioned to see who passes through the town, and to learn much of their business if they happened to be less than discreet while enjoying the refreshments of his common room. Gerif said Larket was a black-mark recruit, and seeks only personal wealth and power through the Vortex, caring little and knowing less of their true mission. He was recruited in the summer of 3016.

But it was the last agent, and the one most recently recruited, that riveted the group’s attention. A red-mark agent, Vorgev Greatcoffer was recruited just four months ago, with an eye to a specific job. A  wealthy Khundari merchant/trader from Dürkon, he conducts much of the city-state’s trade with the Umantari realms of Kildora, Nolkior and, to a lesser extent, Arushal, exchanging weapons and raw ore for foodstuffs and luxury items. He was seduced into the Vortex by the believe that it is a secret Khundari-Umantari alliance that wishes to keep the Ocean Empire out of the North. Vorgev feels his monopolies are threatened by the changes Prince Rhoghûn the Younger has been making since he took power last year, especially the proposed trade treaty with the Khundari princedom of Lakzhan, in the Empire. He sees the Vortex as a way to return to the status quo.

“And you’re too late to stop Arlun,” Gerif added, suddenly seeming more animated, though still under the combined powers of Vulk and Mariala. “The assassination may already have taken place… or will soon…”

“Assassination? What assassination?” Vulk barked, using the full force of his Authority. “Speak!”

“It is not the desire of the Vortex to see Dürkon expand its contacts,” Gerif explained, the blankness settling over him again. “Especially not with the Empire… Arlun used Vorgev… I’m not sure how, he doesn’t tell me very much… bastard thinks he’s so special… infiltrated the dwarven city… the Imperial Ambassador, some Khundari from Zhan-Tor… will be assassinated… make it look like the Prince sanctioned it, I think… destroy any chance of alliance… for years… maybe a generation… undermine Rhogûn, too… we can hope…”

As Mariala explained to her friends, for centuries Dürkon has been isolated from other Khundari realms and city-states, holding tight to a long tradition of isolationism… Rhoghûn’s grandfather instituted a more open exchange with the United Realms of Karac 200 years ago, but even he resisted the overtures of Lakzhan, as being too intimately tied to the policies of the Ocean Empire – many Northern rulers fear the possibility of the return of the Empire. But the new prince wants to open formal relations, including trade deals, with Lakzhan, and thru it with the Empire. Apparently this plan was now coming to fruition…

Despite repeated questioning Gerif could reveal no more about the plot, only that Arlun had left for Dürkon five days ago, by boat, and that the Imperial ambassador was due in the city by Höl Kopia. Eventually they returned to other questions, questions he could answer.

“I want to know about these tattoos,” Devrik growled. “What do they mean, and how do they work?”

Once again Mariala set about pulling the answers from the prisoner…

The black tattoos are the lowest ranking, for agents who are useful and believe in whatever goals the Vortex has told them it seeks (and they tell each agent whatever they believe will best bind him to the organization – revolution, criminal organization, religious ascendency, etc.). Such agents are not highly placed or fully trusted. The only power in the black tattoos is one to confuse their minds if they try to speak to outsiders about the organization. They are seldom used to kill, and when they are fully invoked to scramble the bearer’s mind, they then fade away, leaving no trace.

The red tattoos are for higher placed agents, of a more useful nature to the Vortex… middle management, if you will. These marks not only confuse the mind if the bearer tries to speak to outsiders or otherwise betray the organization, they can erase the agents memory, from the moment it was inked to the present moment. They also allow the bearer to monitor the surface thoughts of any black-mark underlings, if the bearer concentrate and is within about three leagues. If the agent attempts betrayal and so invokes the memory erasure, the red mark too disappears thereafter.

The combined red & black tattoo is given to those who move up to leadership positions, governing a cell. It allows them to monitor the surface thoughts of both red and black marks under their command, if they make an effort to do so. It also prevents revealing Vortex secrets to outsiders, but only if such revelation is done with treasonous intent – when recruiting, the bearer may reveal certain levels of information to potential members. But if there is harmful intent, or under harsh questioning, the tattoo will burn out the mind of s/he who bears it, often killing them in the process. It allows two-way communication with other full-tattoo bearers, which is actually how they communicate, not by magical parchments… though those might be used for instructions to underlings.

Gerif also revealed that the parchment that had led them to him, and the trap of the Labyrinth, had been a planted decoy, designed just for that purpose. Arlun had kept it about him in case he met them again, and had laid the trap with the priest a month earlier. When he had fled from them in the swamp he had flown directly to Gerif to tell him the trap was sprung… the next day he had left for Dürkon to oversee the upcoming assassination.

Gerif also revealed that his main responsibility was diverting certain of the kalovai that exited the Shrine toward certain hunters of the beasts in the foothills south and west of Nah-henu. He had no idea why the Vortex wanted them, only which ones were desired – any unique or rare beast, to be sure, but also rock trolls, hill trolls and other strong, aggressive breeds. He assumed the hunters captured them and sold them, perhaps to finance Vortex activities, but he had no actual knowledge of what was done with the beasts. He also didn’t know who the hunters/trappers were, only where they would be at certain times.

All of this latter information came amongst much muttering about violating the sanctity of the God’s creations, but who cares, the Mad God cared more for his beasts than for his worshipers, he treated them all like shit, to the Void with Him, the Vortex would show all the Immortals what was what…

It was at this point that a mild voice behind them caused the Hand to whirl as one, weapons drawn and ready. But it was an elderly priest, short, bald and wrinkled, who stood unmenacingly before them in his rumpled yellow and red robes.

“I have heard enough,” he said mildly. “It seems I truly do have an infestation of vermin within my house.

“I am Horgûn Entargel, the High Priest of Kalos at Nah-henu… and until this evening, I believed myself the spiritual master of the man you have restrained and ensorcelled there.”

Several of the group began to speak at once, but the little old man held up one hand to silence them, smiling slightly.

“Under normal circumstances, I would never condone, nor allow, such things in this sacred place… but two nights ago a vision came to me while I slept; a vision and not a mere dream, of that I am certain. One does not mistake the voice of the God! In the dream I saw my house infested with a plague of rats, but every time I turned to confront the vermin, they faded into the shadows. Then a golden snake appeared at my door, and when I let him in he became not one snake, but five smaller, ordinary snakes. And these snakes pursued the the rats, forcing them out, and my house was again fit for habitation.

“At that point the rest of the vision faded away and only the great snake remained. He reared up and I looked into His great yellow eyes, and I knew, without words, that I must leave the Shrine unattended on the night of Höl Kopia, save only for my Master of Adepts… I confess that I had no sense that I should cloak myself and stay to watch what would transpire, but even a High Priest is only human… and I hoped that Kalos Himself might appear, as in my dream…”

He sighed and shook his head then. “But perhaps that is my punishment for presuming to alter the God’s instructions, that I shall not see Him in the flesh. Am I correct in understanding that you five have met my deity in the Labyrinth?”

“We have, sir,” said Vulk, stepping forward. “And it was a most… unsettling experience.”

“It always is, or so my studies have told me,” the old man said, smiling. “Perhaps I shall know for myself one day, before I die… if not, certainly afterward, on my journey to either rebirth or Unity.

“In any case, it seems you have done us a great service in exposing this corruption within our temple. And you must stop this assassination, obviously, so tell me how I may be of service to you, in turn?”

By the time the embers of the old hermit’s pyre had burned out it was too late to attempt the trip back to Dor Areson, through a marshland they didn’t know, with possible enemies still lurking about. The Hand decided to overnight in the now-abandoned cabin, and after a subdued but filling meal (old Torkin had a well-stocked larder) most everyone bedded down where they could.

Devrik took the first watch, patrolling outside the cabin, while Mariala, unable to sleep despite being given the one bed, decided to work on deciphering the text on the map of Nah-henu they had discovered among Arlun Parek’s possessions. By the light of the fire and a single candle, she studied the text, recalling all the lessons in cryptography she’d had over the years.

Perhaps it was because she had been focusing so intently on the complex cypher of the late Ser Danyes’ private journal, that she failed to see at once the nature of this code. But after she had set it down to take her turn on watch, and returned to it when Vulk relieved her, the solution came to her in a sudden flash. It was, in fact, a relatively simple substitution cypher. Proof against most would-be readers, to be sure, but not at all difficult for anyone trained in the art. Curious, she thought, for such a secretive group as the Vortex appears to be…

But even as she began to piece together the meaning of the main text, it began to shift and swim before her eyes, the letters sliding greasily around the page. In a few seconds the text had settled into a new configuration on the page, a somewhat longer message than before… it appeared to be in the same code, however, and she quickly began to translate, writing it down on a separate paper this time.

Her urgency seemed unnecessary, however, as the new text remained fixed and seemingly completely normal, even after she had double-checked her final translation. The sun was just beginning to light the eastern sky when she sat back with a sigh and a frown, and contemplated the meaning of what she’d just read.

“You’re still awake?” Vulk spoke softly as he came back into the cabin. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

“No,” she replied. “I really wasn’t tired, and in any case the idea of sleeping in poor Torkin’s bed was… unappealing. But my time wasn’t wasted, Vulk!” She held up her translated copy of the text in one hand, the map in the other.

Before she got too far in her explanation, Vulk suggested they wake the others, so she could tell the tale once to all. Devrik was already awake, stoking the fire, and in a few minutes the entire group was gathered around the hearth to hear what Mariala had discovered.

“I think this map is something like my own magic parchment,” she began, holding up the page for everyone to see. “The text on it shifted while I was decoding it – it was a fairly simple cypher, actually; not child’s play, but nothing like as difficult as the one Ser Danyes was using – and the old message was replaced by a new one as I watched.

“I didn’t get a chance to completely decode the original, unfortunately, but it seemed to be instructions to ‘begin the harvest of urve oil…’ then something about ‘his Lordship’ (and a title I couldn’t translate) having perfected… something… sorry, that was about all I could make of it before it began to change.

“I thought at first the shifting of the letters was a magical defense against someone breaking the code, but this new message has remained on the page, so I don’t think that’s it. Instead, I think this is how the Vortex sends messages to their agents!”

“Well, what does it say?” Erol asked, as everyone leaned forward.

Mariala smiled, and began to read from her translation.

Brother Arlun, from the Council of Regents, greetings. Your are summoned to come before a tribunal of the Council’s Inquisitors to offer testimony on the recent failures and breaches of our works in your charge. You will present yourself at the regional Chamber on the evening of Höl Kopia, when both moons have risen, and await the pleasure of the Inquisitors. As always the lemmings of Kalos will cloak our activities, especially so on this rare holiday conjunction, when so many will flock to grovel at the absent feet of their false god. Let Aranda greet you on this visit, and then be guided, as always, by the tripartite light, which will lead you to the hidden Chamber. You know the penalty for disobedience, but you may yet redeem yourself in the Eye of Chaos.

“The message isn’t signed, as such, but the Vortex symbol appears just below it,” Mariala concluded. As the others sank back and pondered what they’d just heard, the thought racing through each mind that Höl Kopia was just five days away…